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The Library of Choice Fiction. Issued Montlily. By subscription, $6.00 per annum. No. 13. Januax’y, 1801. 

Entered at Chicaj^o Post Office as second-class matter. 


TI)€ Cartarct Affair 


BY 


ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE 

Author of “ DR. J.\CK,” ETC. 




/V 


CHICAGO: 

Laird & Lee, Publishers 

1891 




THE CARTARET AFFAIR. 




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I AERIVE AT CLIFTON.— Page 8 



THE 


CARTARET AFFAIR 



ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE 

Author of “Doctor Jack,” etc. 



CHICAGO 

Laird & Lee Publishers 


COPYRIGHT, 1891, 

By LAIRD & LEE. 

{All rights reserved?) 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I 

My Fellow-traveler on the 7:30 Express 7 

CHAPTER II 

Tom Cartaret, Benedict 16 

CHAPTER IIP 

A Dark Stain on a Dress 25 

CHAPTER IV 

Smithers ^34 

CHAPTER V 

“Tom Cartaret’s Wife!” 43 

CHAPTER VI 

Only His Arm Between 53 

CHAPTER VII 

Uncle Jethro Talks 62 

CHAPTER VIH 

The Door in the Stone Wall 72 

CHAPTER IX 

“I Alone am the Crime stained Wretch!” 81 

CHAPTER X 

Rivals 90 

CHAPTER XI - 

The Office of M. Gautier 99 

CHAPTER XII 

Mr. Smithers Finds Himself Left 108 

CHAPTER XIII 

A Friend in Need 117 

CHAPTER XIV 

A Specter Among the Tombs 126 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER XV 

Uncle Jethro on the Stand. 135 

CHAPTER XVI 

The Chemist I 44 

CHAPTER XVII 

Another Point Gained 154 

CHAPTER XVni 

A Trap for the Sleep-walker 163 

CHAPTER XIX 

On the Scene of Action 173 

CHAPTER XX 

“Rachel Babette is Surely Dead!’’ 182 

CHAPTER XXI 

Memories of the Past. 192 

CHAPTER XXII 

The Way He Won Her 201 

D 

CHAPTER XXIII 

Uncle Jethro at the Confessional 217 

CHAPTER XXIV 

A Cry From Over the Wall 229 

CHAPTER XXV 

“It is Time!’’ 220 

CHAPTER XXVI 

Waiting 238 

CHAPTER XXVII 

The Ghost Walks 247 

CHAPTER XXVIII 

At Last 256 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


CHAPTER I 

MY FELLOW-TRAVELER ON THE 7:30 EXPRESS 

The 7:30 morning train from New York draws 
up at the suburb of Clifton on time. But two 
passengers alight, and one of these chances to be 
myself, plain John Peters. It is a pleasant change 
from the air of the city, and as I stretch my 
limbs upon the station platform I look with sat- 
isfaction upon the trees clad in their rich au- 
tumnal foliage, and draw huge draughts of the 
frosty air into my lungs. A carriage is to meet 
me here, but as I fail to see any signs of a vehi- 
cle, I am forced to believe it has not yet arrived; 
so I walk up and down to keep the blood circu- 
lating, for the car has been uncomfortably warm. 

The odor of a prime Havana drifts across my 
olfactories, and draws my attention toward my 
fellow-passenger, who seems to be waiting for 
some conveyance as well as myself, and is also 
tramping up and down at one end of the station 
platform. 


7 


8 


THE CARTARET ^FEAIR 


He is a medium-sized gentleman, quietly but 
neatly dressed, and with a face darkened by ex- 
posure to tropical suns. I am fond of studying 
physiognomy, and before I have glanced at this 
party twice it is a settled thing in my mind that 
he has seen a great deal of the world. It may 
be that he is an adventurer of some sort, or a 
wealthy “globe-trotter; “ but at all events he has 
studied life under many a foreign sky. 

My speculations are interrupted by the appear- 
ance of an old family coach drawn by a splendid 
pair of bays, with an ancient darky on the box 
whom I recognize as Uncle Jethro, who has been 
in the service of the Cartaret family from boy- 
hood, growing up side by side with old Marse 
Luther, to whom he is devoted as a slave. 

Stepping over to get my bag, when I look 
around again the dark-faced traveler is speaking 
with Uncle Jethro, who obsequiously opens the 
carriage-door for him, somewhat to my surprise. 
Then, he is bound for the quaint Cartaret mansion, 
as well as myself — perhaps some friend of young 
Tom, whom he has met on his travels. 

One can indulge in all manner of speculation 
without worrying over a matter, and I had this 
affair settled in my mind while watching my fel- 
low-passenger enter the vehicle. 

Uncle Jethro has his orders, and he looks about 
him for the other passenger; whereupon I step up, 


MY FELLOlV-TRAyELER 


9 


greet him by name, and announce my readiness 
to accompany him, if he will toss my bag up in 
front, which he does in a solemn manner that 
gives me a chill, for the old darky has always 
seemed a jovial soul. 

“I trust you do not object to my smoking, 
with the glass down,” remarks a quiet voice, and 
I find myself face to face with the bronzed gen- 
tleman whose mission seems to correspond in a 
degree with my own. 

“Not at all,” I immediately reply, being a 
smoker myself, with a decided sympathy for the 
yearning after a soothing weed. 

The bays need no urging, but start off along 
the road, and I settle back to enjoy the bracing 
morning air. My companion eyes me curiously, 
and doubtless is puzzled to make out what my 
exact status in society may be. I can admire him 
for one thing — he knows how to keep a still 
tongue in his head, for, finding that I do not open 
up a conversation, he ventures to make no remark. 

We pass through the town of Clifton, already 
throbbing with activity, and reach the suburbs 
of the place. 

I have been here before, and am in a measure 
familiar with my surroundings. While driving 
through the main street of the town, I notice that 
in many places men are gathered in knots, and 
seem to be talking seriously; but as the election 


lO 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


season is near at hand, I can lay this suppressed 
excitement to that cause, though I wonder why 
more than one among them points toward the 
well-known Cartaret carriage, and I feel the gaze 
of the whole knot fastened upon my face, for my 
companion has drawn his hat down over his eyes 
as though studiously avoiding inspection. 

Beyond the town we come to quite a long hill, 
the slope of which is just steep enough to cause 
the bays to fall into a walk. Thus we pass the 
smithy of the old blacksmith, who ceases to scat- 
ter the sparks with his sledge, and coming to the 
door, looks after us in a way that rather arouses 
my curiosity. Surely, strangers are no novelty 
in Clifton— why should we excite so much at- 
tention? 

Who can account for the vagaries of the hu- 
man mind? Somehow I seem to connect this cu-' 
riosity of the townspeople with the solemn air of 
our black driver, and a peculiar heaviness falls 
upon my spirits. 

Can anything have happened to my old college 
chum, Tom Cartaret? I had a letter from him 
only a few days before, and fancied at the time 
he must be brooding over something, but accepted 
his invitation to come up to see him, spend a few 
days at the house, and then go off for a week’s 
gunning up in Pike County, Pennsylvania, and— 
well, here I am, on deck at the time I appointed. 


MY FELLOJV-TRAVELER 


II 


A thought strikes me, and I lean forward. 

“I say, Uncle Jethro, did my gun and traps 
arrive yesterday?” I ask, and am surprised at 
the look on his ebony face as he turns in his 
seat to answer me. 

“’Deed they did, Marse John — I kerried ^em to 
de house myself.” 

“How is young Mr. Cartaret?” 

"Marse Tom? he as well as could be ’spected.” 

"And his wife?” I continue, determined to dis- 
cover the cause of the darky’s lugubrious aspect. 

"She berry well, I reckons.” 

"I suppose the old gentleman is enjoying his 
usual good health, uncle?” 

While I speak, I realize that my companion has 
raised his head to survey the darky; and yet the 
circumstance hardly makes any impression on my 
mind, for, to my astonishment, the solemn look 
leaves Jethro’s countenance, to be succeeded by 
one of actual horror. 

"Gorry ! Marse John, ’pears like you don’t 
know,” he groans, and my interest awakens with 
a jump. 

"Then, suppose you enlighten me, uncle.” 

"Marse Luther’s done dead!” 

At that a genuine shock as of electricity passes 
through my system — it is so entirely unexpected. 

I confess that the first thought I have is a selfish 
one, since my plans for a week of sport with 


2 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


Tom must now be given up; but I put it away 
with a feeling of shame, and try to think of my 
friend in his sudden bereavement. 

So far as I know, Tom Cartaret has always lived 
in harmony with his father, and when a man loses 
his sole remaining parent, he is certainly to be 
pitied. 

“When did this happen, uncle?” I continue, 
for in his letter Tom has .spoken of all being in 
their usual good health. 

“Last night, Marse John.” 

“It was sudden?" 

“Berry. Dese things always am.” 

“What was his disease, uncle?” 

“Dar was none, unless it am of de mind. De 
ole marse hab been murdered, or else he done 
commit susancide, ” returns the negro, in an awed 
tone of voice, looking, not at me, but toward my 
fellow-passenger, who continues to smoke quietly, 
as though perfectly deaf. 

“Good heavens! this is terrible! Poor Tom!" 
I exclaim, as I picture my friend in his sore dis- 
tress. “Tell me something about it, uncle. In 
what way did he meet his death?” 

“Dey found de marse dead early dis mawnin’ — 
you kin hyar all about it when we gits dar. I 
don^t know nuffin’ — Pse only a pore ole ignorant 
nigger, but I done growed up wid de ole marse, 
an’ I reckon Pda laid down an’ died for him ef 


MY FELLOlV-TRAyELER 


13 


he ask me;” and as the black man turns his at- 
tention to his horses, for we are now at the top 
of the rise, I catch the glisten of a tear rolling 
down his cheek, and feel a sort of dumb pity for 
the poor fellow who has lost so good a friend. 

We drive on, and I find much to ponder over. 
My profession is that of a lawyer; and although 
young in years, I can without egotism say that I 
have done well in my calling, giving promise 
that, with years of study and application, I may 
win both fame and fortune, both of which await 
the right kind of a man at the New York bar. 

My mind being well equipped for wrestling 
with such matters, it is natural that I should 
take more interest in the case than most persons. 
Until I learn the particulars of the sad tragedy, 
however, I do not feel as though I dare form any 
opinion of its merits, and occupy myself in vague 
speculations while the carriage rumbles along the 
shaded pike, with Uncle Jethro paying strict at- 
tention to the horses, although, furtively watch- 
ing, I discover him several times wiping his eyes 
with his sleeve. 

Thus we draw near the Cartaret homestead, and 
I nerve myself for the sad meeting with dear old 
Tom, when I had expected such a joyful occa- 
sion. Pondering upon the strange turn taken in 
fortune’s wheel, I wonder what fate has brought 
me here, of all mornings in the calendar year. 


14 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


Can it be that I am needed — that my presence 
may be a source of strength to Tom in his hour 
of distress? 

Murder or suicide — both ugly words in the eye 
of the law — which would it prove to be? Was 
there a dark cause back of the deed? Must this 
quiet home be overrun with prying minions of 
the law; the country coroner, with his curious 
jury, probing into family secrets; the old detect- 
ive searching for clues in the most unheard-of 
and cob-webbed corners; the bustling* newspaper 
reporter, eager to supply facts for his sensational 
sheet, and if they are denied him, just as ready 
to manufacture them, without regard to common 
decency? 

Heaven forbid! And yet it is the common fate 
that overtakes a household, no matter how se- 
cluded and retired its members may have been, 
where death has entered in a suspicious manner. 
I know more than a little about such things, as 
my business brings me in contact with all man- 
ner of people seeking advice. 

We are by this time at the gate, which is 
open, and Uncle Jethro drives straight in. It is 
only now I remember I have a companion in the 
carriage, and the thought strikes me that he must 
be a singular man indeed to hear such shocking 
news without commenting on it. As I turn to 
look at him again, I find that he is leaning out of 


MY FELLOH^-TRAyELER 


15 


the window and surveying the scenery along the 
drive. 

"A noble property, this Cartaret estate. Strange 
that trouble is no respecter of persons,” he says. 
I am not sure whether he addresses me or mutters 
to himself; but before I can think of replying I 
see Tom Cartaret under the trees near by, and 
stopping the carriage, jump out. 

Tom is looking badly — deuced pale, and* not a 
little worried, as though the terrible event of 
the morning has unstrung his nerves. As I ad- 
vance toward him, I notice that he seems to look 
beyond me, toward the carriage, and that there 
is a certain uneasiness in his manner. Turning 
my head, I discover that my compagnon de voyage 
has changed his seat, and it is upon him that 
Tom Cartaret gazes as might a bird at the ser- 
pent that has charmed it. The vehicle rolls on, 
the dark-faced man waves his hand courteously, 
and I fin4 myself alone witluTom. 


CHAPTER II 


TOM CARTARET, BENEDICT 

In days gone by, Tom Cartaret and I have seen 
a good deal of each other. First, we were room- 
mates and chums at Yale — and that means life- 
long friendship. Then, both of us were fond of 
sport, so that each year we had taken our outing 
in company, generally up in Maine or the Adi- 
rondacks; and around the camp-fire the bonds 
formed at college were doubly cemented, for 
there is nothing, I am of the opinion, that draws 
two congenial souls together into closer union 
than to spend weeks in company off in the wil- 
derness. 

Under these circumstances, it can .be seen and 
readily understood that Tom’s trouble is mine 
also — he is as dear to me as ever a brother could 
be. When I take his hand I endeavor to make 
him understand this in the expressive pressure — 
words are so feeble at a time like this, so cold 
when one desires to extend sympathy — a glance 
from the eye, the clasp of a warm hand, how 
much more they contain than the best of phrases ! 

Still, I feel as though I must say something. 

i6 



TOM CARTARET AND MYSELF.— Page 15. 



r 



TOM CARTARET, BENEDICT 


17 


Tom and I are used to being confidential, though 
I have felt lately as though our pleasant bachelor 
friendship must have come to an end when he 
married. 

“ThisMs a terrible thing Uncle Jethro has been 
telling me, Tom. I never had such a shock in 
my life,” I manage to say. 

"John, it is something awful! Words can’t 
describe my condition of mind. And to think 
that my last words with him were bitter ones! I 
shall never forgive myself — never!” and he groans 
dismally. 

I am interested, of course — my legal training 
has taught me to pick up the points in a case and 
apply them as might a skillful detective. 

“If you had hot words with him, Tom, do you 
believe that was reason for your father to take 
his own life?” 

At that he turns upon me sadly. 

“Where did you get that notion, John? — from 
Uncle Jethro, I suppose. You may as well dis- 
miss it at once from your mind. Father was in 
his sound senses, and no man detested the idea 
of suicide worse. He did not take his own 
life.” 

His earnestness is convincing, and I feel some- 
thing of a shudder pass over me. In one breath 
Tom artlessly deplores the fact that on the pre- 
vious night he and his father had quarreled, and 
The Car tar et Affair 2 


i8 THE CARTARET AFFAIR 

in the next declares it his firm belief that murder 
has been done. 

I shiver, because I am aware of the fact that a 
detective on the case is bound to put two and 
two in a line whenever they harmonise, and 
surely here is evidence of a theory that must be 
looked into. 

Of course, I do not hint at such a thing to 
Tom — there will be time enough for tJiat later 
on, if necessary. 

I ask him to tell me all he knows of the sad 
occurrence; for when one is in a state of mind 
bordering on distraction, it is often a relief to 
the feelings to talk, and I really believe my friend 
will be better if he can engage in conversation. 

"Briefly, then, John, my evidence is this: I left 
father at a quarter to twelve, sitting in his chair 
in the library. Our dispute had been bitter, but 
we had shaken hands at the end of it, and parted 
in something like a friendly way. I retired at 
once, but could not sleep for perhaps half an 
hour, because my mind was disturbed by what 
had passed. When I arose this morning it was just 
growing light, and my head throbbed wildly, for 
I had pa-ssed a restless night. I had just fin- 
ished dressing when I heard sounds of great con- 
fusion below — a succession of shrieks from 
Chloe, our old servant. With that I ran hastily 
down-stairs, and came upon the gld aunty in the 


TOM CARTARET, BENEDICT, 


19 


hall. She was crying in a sort of hysterical 
manner, and as I took hold of her wrist to draw 
her hand from her face, she gave a shriek. ‘He’s 
done dead — he’s lyin’ in de room all covered 
wid blood! De good Lor’ help us!’ she cried. 
With that I threw her from me, and guessing who 
she meant, sprang to the library door and en- 
tered. It was a sight, John, I shall never for- 
get to my dying day. My father sat bolt upright 
in his chair, his eyes staring and glassy, a look 
of horror upon his face, as though his fate had 
come upon him suddenly, but had paralyzed him 
with fear. A weapon had been plunged straight 
into his heart — I believe he must have died with- 
out another breath.’ 

He presses his hands fiercely against his throb- 
bing temples; I can see his eyes are red, as though 
little sleep had come to them during the preced- 
ing night. It is natural for Tom to feel terribly 
over the tragic fate of his father, and yet some- 
how it impresses me that he is not the man I 
knew so well to-day. Perhaps the bitter memory 
of that last quarrel with the parent who is no 
more, crushes him — I know something causes him 
to turn his eyes away from my gaze, to appear 
nervous, and very unlike his usual self. 

Presently he recovers, and goes on with as- 
sumed calmness : 

"When I reached a condition that I could think, 


20 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


I found both of the servants sobbing beside me. 

I hurried Jethover to old Doctor Craig, who soon 
joined me. Acting on his advice, I sent word in 
to police headquarters in New York, and they 
wired back that they would send a man out at 
once to look into the matter. Doctor Craig said 
this ought to be done — I was so broken down 
that I couldn’t think for myself.” 

“It was right, Tom. If your father has been 
brutally murdered, justice demands that the truth 
be discovered and the guilty one punished.” 

To my surprise, he shivers and lets his head 
fall. 

‘T suppose that is right,” he says, wearily, "but 
it will not bring father to life. I have never 
been in favor of earthly vengeance, you know.” 

"Good heavens! man; this is simple justice. 
Would you let the fiend who took your father’s 
life go free, to boast of the deed, and perhaps re- 
peat it on the first occasion? You owe it to his 
memory that you hunt the assassin down and 
place the rope around his neck.” 

“Let us talk of something else, John — I am 
not myself just now.” 

Poor fellow! he does look fagged out; and yet 
I can hardly lay his strange actions to this cause 
alone. As I have known Tom so long, I believe 
I can reasonably gauge his character, and I have 
always understood him to be rather inclined to- 


TOM CARTA RET, BENEDICT 


21 


ward a Quixotic disposition. If any person hurt 
a friend or spoke against one he loved, he would 
be up in arms instantly. 

Hence I cannot understand his present meek 
disposition, wh^n it would have been natural, 
under the circumstances, for him to be terribly 
anxious for the apprehension of the villain who 
has murdered his father. 

Tom does not seem himself — secretly, I am 
obliged to confess that a great change has come 
over him since his marriage. 

I have not met his wife. It is partly for that 
I have consented to remain a few days at his 
home ere starting on our hunting trip. Tom 
married abroad somewhere, and his letters gave 
me the idea that he was head over heels in love 
with his charming Madge. I had only hoped she 
was worthy of Tom Cartaret, for I believed him 
to be the best fellow alive. 

This reminds me. 

“Where is your wife, Tom?’’ I ask. 

“I believe she is still asleep. She seldom gets 
up before seven or half-past, and this morning 
she appears to be sleeping unusually heavy,” he 
replies, looking in the direction of the house, 
seen through the crimson-garbed trees. 

Tom, whom I used to believe the acme of 
frankness, will not l^ok me in the eye — he feels 
the shock strangely. 


22 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


“It will be a terrible blow to her," I remark. 

“Yes, indeed. I would that I could save her 
from it, but that is impossible," he mutters. 

“Everyone will soon know of it — the country 
coroner must come and pry into all your family 
matters. Poor Tom! I feel for you." 

“I know it, John. I have foreseen this from 
the start, but it is inevitable," with a twitching 
at his lips that bespeaks nervousness. 

“Come," he says, arousing with an effort, “let 
us go to the house. You will want to see for 
yourself the terrible sight. I have not allowed 
a thing to be moved. Besides, he may want to 
see me." 

“To whom do you refer?" 

“The detective they sent up." 

An idea flashes into my mind. 

“Good heavens! is that quiet, dark-faced man 
who came with me, a detective?" 

“I presume so — he is a stranger to me." 

I remember his actions, and can well believe it 
to be so; and yet he was so gentlemanly and 
quiet, and so entirely different from the fussy, 
important officers I had come in contact with in 
the city, that I am somewhat surprised. All the 
same, I mentally decide in my own mind that 
this party is a deep one, well calculated to dis 
cover what truth lies hidden under the mysteri- 
ous death of old Luther Cartaret. 


TOM CART A RET, BENEDICT 


23 


Side by side we walk toward the house. Tom 
is unusually silent, and knowing that his thoughts 
must be connected with the sad event that has 
descended so suddenly upon his house, I do not 
break in upon his reverie. 

Once or twice 1 find myself wishing I had 
remained in New York, or gone elsewhere for my 
vacation, but my better self spurns this idea as 
unworthy of my manhood. Tom Cartaret is my 
dearest friend, and Tom is in deep trouble, so 
that he really needs my assistance. Looking at it 
in that light, my coming seems to be in the light 
of a fortunate fate. 

We reach the house. All is silent about it, 
and well this may be, since under that roof lies 
the victim of a secret crime. Stirred as I have 
never been in connection with any event in the 
past, I prepare to follow my friend into the house 
of mourning. I feel for Tom in his sudden be- 
reavement, and besides, there is a peculiar sense 
of wonder with regard to his actions that worries 
me. As yet, I have not had time to analyze it, 
but this must soon come, when. I can sit down 
and with a steady hand draw aside the curtain 
that conceals the facts. 

Tom walks firmly along the hall. Not a soul 
do we meet. The dining-room lies at the end, 
and the library half-way down. Beyond this is 
a little sleeping apartment used by the old gentle- 


24 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


man of late years. At the library door Tom 
stops, laying his hand upon the knob. He turns 
his head to speak to me, and I am again im- 
pressed with the singular whiteness of his usu- 
ally ruddy face. 

Tom Cartaret, benedict, is not the same man 
I knew as a bachelor — that is quite evident. But 
perhaps I am unjust; the present cruel circum- 
stances must account in a great measure for his 
looks. When a man has his nerves badly shat- 
tered, as Tom’s must naturally be, he is hardly 
accountable for peculiar looks or actions. 

I let it pass — it is so easy to find excuses for 
friendship. 

“Prepare yourself for a terrible sight, John. 
It will be a shock,” he says, quietly, and yet I 
can see he is about to enter the room with the 
greatest reluctance himself. 

“I am ready — lead the way, Tom.” 

With that he pushes open the door, which is 
ajar, and we enter the library, to look upon the 
victim of the mysterious crime. 










FINDING THE BODY OF TOM’S FATHER.— Page 25. 





CHAPTER III 


A DARK STAIN ON A DRESS 

Although neither a doctor nor a soldier by pro* 
fession, I have always flattered myself upon the 
possession of strong nerves. In more than one 
instance during my life this fact has been tested 
to my satisfaction, and under the circumstances, 
I enter the library prepared. Nevertheless, I am 
conscious of a strange, shuddering thrill passing 
through my frame when I catch my first glimpse 
of that grim figure seated in the easy-chair, his 
head fallen back, the open, glazed eyes staring at 
vacancy, the hands clutching the arms of his 
chair, as if in sudden agony, and a dark stain on 
the rug covering the hard-wood floor terribly 
suggestive of crime. 

It is a spectacle I shall never eradicate from 
my mind — those sightless, staring eyes will 
haunt me at times all my life. I feel it, I know 
it, and yet do not shrink away — indeed, after that 
one shudder, the scene no longer has any terror 
for me. I have experienced all the horror, and 
could now even assist to lay the body out, if it 
were necessary. 


25 


26 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


There is a sort of horrible fascination in the 
sight, and I have to make an effort to tear my 
gaze away. Tom stands near me, but his eyes 
are fastened upon the end of the room, as though 
something there claims his attention. 

“That is a spectacle for a son to remember ! ’’ 
he says, in a bitter tone. 

“Tom, my friend, you must arouse yourself ; 
throw off this singular incubus that seems to be 
weighing you down; be a man.” 

With that he turns a haggard face upon me, 
and the look in his eyes tells more plainly than 
words the state of his mind. 

“Would to God I could, John! but I feel as 
though I would be better off if I were lying 
there beside my father.” 

I am mystified at these words, and eye him sus- 
piciously, fearing that Tom may be going out 
of his mind. No doubt he takes the quarrel with 
his father grievously to heart, since death has 
forever placed a reconciliation out of his power. 
Remorse is merciless indeed when it tugs at the 
human heart, as many a wretched son or daughter 
has learned to their sorrow when bending over 
the loved form whose lips of clay will never 
again utter a mortal sound. 

From my heart I pity this friend of mine. 
Knowing him so well, with his usual bright, sunny 
nature, I wonder what mockery of fate this is 


A DARK STAIN ON A DRESS 


27 


that deprives him of a father just after his first 
quarrel with that parent. 

An awful thought comes unbidden into my 
mind, but I banish it instantly. Who would dare 
suspect Tom of such a stupendous crime? and 
yet men have before now, in a fit of sudden pas- 
sion, committed deeds of which in their sane 
moments they would have been horrified at even 
the thought. If Tom Cartaret did this foul thing, 
he must have been crazy when he made himself a 
parricide. 

What can I say to cheer him up? I feel power- 
less to utter words of sympathy, and he does not 
seem to arouse himself even with the natural 
idea of hunting down the slayer of his father. 

While I stand thus bewildered, groping in a 
fog, as it were, I hear the library door creak on 
its hinges, and catch the rustle of a dress. Turn- 
ing my head, I see an apparition — as lovely a 
woman as my eyes have ever beheld, with bonny 
brown hair, the softest of eyes, and a form that 
Hebe might have envied. 

This is Madge — Tom Cartaret’ s wife. She has 
taken a step or two into the library, with a smile 
on her face for Tom, then seeing he is not alone, 
and noticing his strange looks, she stands there, 
the smile frozen on her face, so to speak. 

In the silence that ensues for nearly half a 
minute, I gaze entranced at this charming picture, 


28 


THE CHRTHRET AFFMR 


and mentally forgive Tom for throwing up the 
sponge in the arena of bachelordom. With such 
a witch to cast a spell over one, who would not 
surrender? 

Madge is dressed in a morning robe of some- 
light, creamy texture, and my eyes are at once at- 
tracted to a spot near the hem — a dark patch of a 
brownish hue — such a Color as a splash of blood 
might make when dry. 

Great heavens! what a shock goes through my 
system at sight of this stain, which is evidently 
unknown to the lovely wearer — but pshaw! I would 
as soon think of suspecting myself as this sweet 
creature. 

My attention is at once taken up with Tom, 
who at sight of his wife seems greatly excited. 

He endeavors to get between the ghastly form 
reclining in the chain and Madge, and in this 
succeeds, but forgets the pier-glass at the end of 
the room. 

I can see her give a horrified glance into that, 
and know she has looked upon all. She takes 
one step forward, her hands are raised toward her 
husband in a pleading way; her lips move trem- 
ulously, and I catch the words: 

“Tom — husband — in mercy’s name ! tell me this 
is a dream. Oh, my God! can it be possible that 
he is dead? — and — you — ” 

The words die away faintly on the air. Tom 


A DARK STAIN ON A DRESS 


29 


Cartaret springs forward just in time to catch 
his wife as she swoons. I am at his side in- 
stantly, and endeavor to help him; but he turns 
upon me almost fiercely — so unlike the Tom of 
other days. 

“I can carry her to her room alone — wait for 
me here, John.” 

Of course, I fall back — they are one, and no 
other person should touch her but him; so I walk 
to the window, while Tom, powerful fellow that 
he is, easily gathers the form of his wife in his 
arms and carries her away. 

Left alone in that room, with the body of the 
dead man to keep me company, I fall to rumi- 
nating and indulging in speculations. 

These latter are only vague as yet, but they 
serve to make me deucedly uncomfortable. 

What if Tom, in the heat of anger, or when 
temporarily crazy, has done this unnatural deed, 
and his wife suspects him? — that would be a situ- 
ation for the display of emotions intense enough 
to satisfy the most exacting. 

At any rate, I feel that the shadow upon the 
house of Cartaret is bound to grow darker, and 
that Tom’s happiness is doubtless ruined. The 
breeze coming through the window starts the 
door — I hear it creaking, and then comes the 
bang, which <^auses me to start, even though pre- 
pared for it. 


30 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


A few seconds later, someone touches me on 
the shoulder, and I experience a peculiar sensa- 
tion while turning my head, as though half ex- 
pecting to see old Luther Cartaret standing there. 

Instead, it is the dark-featured gentleman who 
was my companion on the 7: 30 express from New 
York. I realize that he has doubtless been in 
the room all the while — it was his hand that 
started the library door on its swinging journey. 

“I beg your pardon, sir. You are Mr. John 
Peters, a New York lawyer, I believe — heard of 
you, and know your reputation as a square man. 
I am the detective sent out here at the request 
of Mr. Tom Cartaret” — with an emphasis on these 
words that made an impression on me — "to 
investigate the strange death of his father." 

I hardly know what to say. Ordinarily, there is 
nothing repulsive about this person, who looks 
and acts like a gentleman; but somehow, when I 
associate him with Tom Cartaret and his wife, I 
feel a . sort of repugnance toward him. 

He does not await any reply, but strikes at the 
root of matters in a frank way that goes far to- 
ward eliminating my distrust. 

‘‘Mr. Peters, there is no need of my comment- 
ing upon this sad event. My business is to find 
out who the guilty party may be. As an es- 
teemed friend of the family, you could give me 
considerable assistance if you were so minded.” 


A DARK STAIN ON A DRESS 


31 


"I didn’t come here to act the detective," I 
mutter. 

"True; but in assisting me you may be able to 
help your friends. Surely, it is the-ir wish to 
have the guilty punished." 

I remember Tom’s rather strange action in the 
premises, but wisely keep it to myself. 

"Of course, Tom desires the truth known. 1 
myself feel that, in justice to the dead, this 
should be done." 

"It will be done anyhow. Such a crime as this 
cannot be hidden in order to save the family 
publicity. " 

"I realize that, and in the hope that I may be 
of service to my friends in some way, I promise 
to render you any assistance in my power." 

He looks at me quietly, and proceeds: 

"Do you promise that, Mr. Peters?" 

"I do, sir." 

"Perhaps you do not realize what it may come 
to. Suppose I should hint to you that the cir- 
cumstances strongly point toward Tom Cartaret 
as the person most likely to have taken that 
wretched man’s life?" 

I draw a long breath, and yet seem to be wonder- 
fully calm, considering the awful nature of his 
charge. This probably comes from such a sus- 
picion having darted into my brain before. 

"I believe I have not heard your name?" 


32 


THE CARTAR.ET AFFAIR 


"Call me Smithers. ’’ 

"Well, Mr. Smithers, you can rest assured of 
one thing: I have known Tom for years, and if 
he turns out to be guilty of this thing, you may 
depend upon it, the man was out of his mind 
when it was done. In his right senses, Tom 
Cartaret would never injure the man he rever- 
enced as his father.” 

"Very probably what you say is true, sir,” he 
replied, without the semblance of a smile on his 
sphinx-like face. "He’s a gentleman, every inch 
of him; but even gentlemen will sometimes fly 
into a passion, you know, and do things in a 
minute’s ugliness that they may regret all the 
rest of their lives." 

The deep significance of his words assure me 
that already Mr. Smithers has a suspicion with 
regard to certain events. 

Memory carries me back to a certain occasion 
when I saw my friend Tom fly into a sudden 
passion. A brute of a man was beating a child 
in a cruel fashion. Tom and I came upon the 
scene suddenly. I saw his face grow black as a 
thunder-cloud, and with one spring he was upon 
the wretch, whom I verily believe he would have 
killed then and there, only that I drew him away 
in time. Since that time I knew that jovial Tom 
could fly into a horrible passion if there was suf- 
ficient grounds for it. Who could tell what 


A DARK STAIN ON A DRESS 


33 


cause his -father may have given for allowing this 
demon of a temper to spring up? Perhaps in his 
hot anger he had spoken disrespectfully of Tom’s 
wife — insulted her, it might be — and the younger 
man, blinded with fury, had forever stilled the 
tongue that goaded him. 

This is a speculation, of course; but the fact 
of Smithers striking so near the root gives it 
deeper significance in my eyes. 

“Have you discovered anything that causes you 
to look toward Tom for an explanation of this 
dark mystery?” I ask boldly, hardly believing he 
will answer me frankly, for I am aware of the 
fact that these men do not exchange confidences, 
as a general rule, unless they expect to profit by 
the transaction. 

“There are several things that serve to impli- 
cate young Mr. Cartaret; and while he is en- 
gaged in restoring his wife to her senses, I may 
as well speak of them to you, since you have so 
kindly agreed to further the ends of ’ustice.” 


The Cartaret Affair j 


CHAPTER IV 


SMITHERS 

I am perfectly conscious of the fact that 
Smithers is drawing me into the case — perhaps 
he sees a way to make me useful, and while un- 
der ordinary circumstances I might resent such 
action, there is a peculiar fascination about this 
affair that causes me to overlook my pride and 
swallow the bait. 

Besides, I am very anxious to hear what he 
has discovered; so, with a glance toward the door 
to make sure that Tom is not returning, and a 
second look at the silent figure in the arm-chair, 
I assume an air of expectancy^. 

Mr. Smithers lays a hand upon my arm, as if 
to rivet my attention; there is no need of this, 
for I am only too anxious. 

“In the first place, I have reason to believe, 
from certain facts I have picked up, that Tom 
Cartaret and his father were engaged in a loud 
and angry dispute last night, well on toward 
midnight. That is a very suspicious circum- 
stance — as a lawyer, you re''.lize that.” 

“Yes,” I reply; “but if guilty, he would not tell 
the circumstance immediately.” 

34 


SMITHERS 


35 


"Did he relate it to you?" 

"Yes; and sorely lamented the fact that his 
last interview with his father should have wit- 
nessed the only quarrel they ever had." 

"Yes, yes; by the way, did he tell you what the 
cause of the trouble was?” 

"He did not." 

"Ah! that would probably figure strongly in 
the case; but we will have to do without it. Do 
you know the relation that generally existed be- 
tween father and son?” 

"It was a cordial one.” I am only too glad to 
give this sort of evidence. 

"You have known Tom for years — tell me if 
you have ever seen him fly into a passion.” 

I hesitate; but his eyes are upon me, and I find 
myself forced to speak, so I relate the incident 
of the brutal parent whom Tom punished so se- 
verely for his cruelty. Mr. Smithers appears to 
take a mental note of the fact, and I fancy I can 
see a gleam in his rat-like eyes that betokens 
pleasure. It does not matter to him who he 
runs to earth, so long as he plays a strong hand 
and succeeds in his case. Human misery counts 
but little in his estimation when compared with 
the successful cornering of a criminal. The in- 
tricate moves upon the great chess-board of life 
may be made before his eyes, but he cares noth- 
ing for the means employed, so long as he is able 


36 


THE CHRTARET AFFAIR 


to eventually carry the game and cry “Check- 
mate. ” 

“Well and good, Mr. Peters. In the brief time 
allowed me, vvhile you two were talking in the 
garden, I believe I have discovered something 
that may throw a light on their quarrel," he 
says, taking a paper from his pocket. 

“I do not care to hear it," I say hastily, for it 
does not seem the right thing that I, Tom’s 
warmest friend, should be prying into his secrets. 

“Since you promised to aid me in discovering 
the truth, you must listen." 

“But when I said that, I did not know you sus- 
pected Tom Cartaret of the crime," I reply. 

“That makes no difference; I count on your 
help," he returns, doggedly. 

“See here, why do you insist upon taking me 
into your confidence? I am a law3^er, not a de- 
tective, and can hardly serve you in the way you 
expect." 

• Even that loop-hole is closed. 

“Perhaps I desire the advice of a lawyer in the 
matter. At any rate, listen while I read this 
document, which I found lying on the table yon- 
der, crumpled up, as though Tom Cartaret had 
hurled it from him in scorn." 

And he began to read in low but quick tones. 
I could not put my hands to my ears, and be- 
sides, if this paper had any connection with the 


SMITHERS 


37 


death of Luther Cartaret, it must eventually 
come out in public court, so what could be the 
harm of my hearing it now? I presume men have 
their share of curiosity, too, and I could not for 
the life of me imagine what cause for a quarrel 
had come up between Tom and his father. 

“Luther Cartaret, Esq., — Dear Sir: As a 
lover of truth and justice, I desire to warn you 
against a person of your household who is not 
fit to live under the Cartaret roof. She I refer 
to is your son’s wife, Madge. He met and mar- 
ried her in Paris, where she was living a gay 
life, and it is more than rumored was the cause 
of at least one duel between those who were 
sighing for her smiles. If you desire further 

proof, write to or call on Mr. Philip Gautier, 

Broadway, New York; and if you convince him 
of your friendliness and agree to keep his name 
out of the mess, I am sure he will pile up writ- 
ten and oral proof enough to make you cast this 
wretched girl from your house as though she were 
a leper. 

“Believe me, respected sir, your obedient serv- 
ant, Jules Garribrant. “ 

The contents of the infamous letter stun me, 
and I must confess that the case does indeed 
look black for Tom Cartaret. If his father gave 
him that letter to read, and then declared that 
he believed the foul accusation — well, I don’t 


38 


THE Cy^RTHRET AFFAIR 


know what another man might have done, but I 
should certainly have been tempted to knock the 
man down, be he father or brother — perhaps Tom 
would do more. 

Smithers watches me. The infernal rascal no 
doubt reads me like a book, just because I fail 
to possess a sphinx-like face, such as his own, 
and am verdant enough to allow my emotions 
full play instead of bridling them. 

"What do you think of that, Mr. Peters?" 
folding the letter up as he speaks. 

"On general principles, I would denounce it as 
an infamous production, brought about in a spirit 
of revenge by some enemy.” 

"Exactly; and if this is a base slander, there 
is all the more reason why Tom should go into a 
state of fury when it was handed to him.” 

I drop my head in some confusion, for what 
he says is really the truth. How these fiends of 
detectives do dig out a pit to engulf a man 
against whom they entertain suspicions! Heaven 
preserve me from falling under the ban of such 
a man as Smithers. How do I know, even now, 
but that he has a suspicion I may be connected 
with this terrible affair — really, I had better be 
carwful, or he will weave his web about me, and 
convince me that I must be guilty of the crime. 
Circumstantial evidence is overpowering, you 
know. 


SMITHERS 


39 


“Would you mind letting me have that let- 
ter?" 

"What would you do with it?" he asks. 

"I might want to ask Tom’s opinion of it, and 
again — well, perhaps, if I am down on Broadway, 
I could step in and ask Mr. Philip Gautier a 
few pertinent questions — as Tom’s friend." 

He smiles significantly, but hands me the 
letter, which I secrete upon my person. 

"Whoever this Jules Garribrant may be, I pity 
him if he ever runs across those stalwart arms 
of yours, Mr. Peters. You are something of an 
athlete, I reckon." 

"I belong to the Manhattan Athletic Club, and 
am a member of the boat club, which would ac- 
count for my good muscles," I reply, not con- 
sidering his remark out of the way, because my 
name is frequently in the papers connected with 
some entertainment or boat-race. 

It is surely time for Tom to make his appear- 
ance — his wife must have recovered from her 
swoon by now. Smithers seems to have an idea 
to the same purpose, for, with a hasty glance at 
the door, he proceeds to take a package of news- 
paper from his pocket, which he unrolls. 

"Here is another bit of evidence that- may go 
against our young friend — the knife with which 
the fatal blow was struck." 

The paper is unfolded, and lying in it I see a 


40 


THE CHRTARET AFFAIR 


knife, the blade of which has some spots of 
dried blood upon it. 

“Where did you find this?" I ask, taking it up. 

“Over in the corner yonder, where the horrified 
assassin may have hurled it when he realized 
what he had done in his passion.” 

“Terrible! terrible!” 

“You see it is no ordinary knife — from the 
shape of it, I should say it was a blade used as 
a hunting-knife. I understand Tom Cartaret is 
fond of such sports, and this weapon must be 


“You are mistaken there. See here, on the haft 
are the initials ‘J. P.^ Do you know what they 
stand for? I reckon John Peters would answer." 

“Your knife?” 

“Yes, sir; and never did I dream that it would 
be put to such a base use. That trusty blade 
has stood by me for years; but I shall have to 
believe there is a curse upon it now.” 



“M ay I ask how it came here? 


to your friend?” rolling it up coolly, and replac- 
ing it in his pocket. 

“I sent my traps up ahead — I believe I saw them 
lying on a table in the hall as I passed through. 
The assassin must have secured the knife there 
before entering the room.” 

“Ah! then, that goes to prove that the guilty 
one came from within, and not from without, ” he 



FURTHER EVIDENCE DISCOVERED.— Rage 39. 





• 0 

. *? 


^ • • 


' (• 




• 

fj . 



1 


SMITHERS 


41 


says, with a sardonic smile that drives me wild, 
for I realize what a wonderful faculty this man 
has for turning trifling things to account. I am 
but a puppet in his hands, so to speak; but loyal 
to my friend, I determine to remain in the game 
to learn the worst, and shield him if I can. 

“Is it not possible that the assassin may have 
come from without?” I ask, faintly. 

He motions to the windows. 

“They were all fast as you see when I came in 
here— I questioned old aunty, who declares she 
locked the doors herself. It would seem, there- 
fore, that the outside theory is in poor condition. ” 

That adds another nail to the coffin, and I feel 
that Tom stands on a slippery place. Smithers 
seems to listen, and then says, quietly: 

“He is coming; I will slip into the little room 
beyond;” and even as he speaks he is gone. 

I breathe a little more freely when I have 
opened a window and let in some of the bracing 
fall air. Until now, I have not noticed how heavy 
the atmosphere is in the room. 

Sure enough, Tom enters, and looking at his 
face, I see it more haggard than before. The late 
swooning spell of his wife has not succeeded in 
chasing the shadows from his countenance; in- 
deed, it seems to me he looks worse. As his 
eyes are drawn toward the stiffened figure in the 
antique arm-chair, he trembles, and a pitiful 


42 


THE CHRTARET AFFAIR 


groan parts his lips. Is it repentance, or genuine 
heart anguish, that now influences him? I am not 
losing faith at all in Tom — that is as steady as 
a rock. He may be guilty, but if so, he knew not 
what he was doing — on that principle I am ready 
to base my trust. 

"John, what miserable fate was it that brought 
you here just to be mixed up in this terrible af- 
fair? I would that you had not come," he says, 
looking me steadily in the face. 

"On my part, I am glad I have come. You 
need a faithful friend just now." 

"Heaven knows I do! ” he replies, fervently. 

"And I intend to stand by you, and see you 
through this wretched business, as a friend. 
Will you confide in me, Tom?" 

He seems startled at my question. 

"I— you see — confound it, John, of course I 
will. What do you mean?" he stammers, though 
I fail to see why he should be confused. 

"Tell me all about this?" taking out the crum- 
pled letter. 


CHAPTER V 


"tom cartaret’s wife! ’’ 

At last I have succeeded in arousing Tom 
from his peculiar melancholy condition. At sight 
of the letter his face shows an expression of 
surprise that quickly changes to one of anger. 

"That accursed letter! ” he growls; "where did 
you get it, John Peters?" 

"It was found on the table here, just where 
you no doubt cast it after your interview, last 
night, with your father," I reply, coolly, at the 
same time keeping it out of his reach. 

"Why don’t you let me have it?" he demands. 

"Because I wish to preserve it." 

Suspicion flushes his face; he is in a condi- 
tion to be ugly and unwise. 

"John, are you in league with my foes — you, 
the friend I believed I could depend on?" 

"What on earth makes you say that?" 

"Why should you desire to preserve that in- 
famous letter, which is a thousand times better 
destroyed? It is burned on my brain in letters 
of fire. " 

"That’s where you have the advantage of me, 
43 


44 


THE CARTAFtET AFFAIR 


as my branding-iron don’t work. I am preserving 
the letter in order to keep the name and address 
it bears. It was my intention, the first time I 
was in New York, to look up M. Jules Garribrant, 
as your friend, and either make him swallow the 
lie he has written or the letter that contains it.” 

At this Tom stares hard; then tears come into 
his eyes — blessed tears, that cool the parched and 
aching orbs — while he seizes my hand convul- 
sively. 

"John, I thank heaven for such a friend 
at a time like this! The strain was getting too 
heavy for me to bear alone.” 

"Then, share it with me, Tom.” 

Even as I speak I shudder, for there flashes 
into my mind the memory of the quiet man who 
is in the adjoining room, his sharp ears taking 
in everything that is spoken. What if Tom, 
feeling that confession is good for the soul, 
should suddenly commence to tell me how he 
was led to commit the terrible act? The idea 
is horrible — I cannot bear it. Quickly I add: 

“Tom, there is no need of my asking you 
whether this base accusation is true.” 

“It is an accursed calumny. My Madge is as 
pure and spotless a girl as ever drew breath. 
Those who know her best love her most. But 
why do you, who have never met her, believe in 
her?” 


“TOA/ CARTARETS IVIFEP 


45 


I have succeeded in my attempt to draw him 
away from a confession, if such a thing had been 
on the tip of his tongue, and hence I continue, 
in a more deliberate fashion: 

“Two reasons influence me: I have seen your 
wife — here in this room — and if I am any judge 
of human character, it would be hard to be- 
lieve one possessing her face guilty of such 
things as this man charges her with.' 

“Bless you, John, for those words !“ he mutters, 
brokenly, passing his hand over his brow in a 
vague manner I cannot comprehend. 

“My second reason is my knowledge of you; 
I believe you would never marry such a woman 
as this letter mentions.” 

“The scoundrel! he shall pay for his work.” 

“Who — Garribrant ?” 

“There is no such person. This letter was the 
work of Philip Gautier himself.” 

“Ah I I begin to understand — he used the other 
name simply as a blind.” 

“Like the coward he is! just like him to 
strike in the dark.” 

“Tom, who is Gautier?” 

“A Frenchman who sued for Madge’s love, and 
being declined, for she loved me, swore to be 
revenged upon us both. This is the way he takes 
that revenge. ” 


46 


THE CHRTARET AFFAIR 


That part is now clear, and there is no further 
need of dwelling upon it. 

“Your wife has come out of her swoon, Tom?" 

“Yes; it was a terrible shock to her." 

“She seemed to associate you in sonie way 
with the awful crime," I cannot help saying, 
whereupon he gives me a most singular look, 
and I believe I see a light cross his face as of 
relief. 

“Do you think so, John? I was afraid — " He 
does not finish the sentence, but sinks into a 
chair, burying his face in his hands. 

His attitude is one of despair, and my heart 
aches for the friend whom I have known so long. 
He has a secret buried in his heart — a terrible 
one, I am afraid — and much as I would like to 
hear it, I dare not encourage him to confide in me 
now, with those hostile ears close by, ready to 
catch any incriminating evidence and use it 
against Tom. 

All at once, Tom starts to his feet in excite- 
ment ; at the same time I hear a voice above call- 
ing aloud — it is Aunt Chloe: 

“Marse Tom! she done swooned agin. I kaint 
do nothin’ wid her. Marse Tom, come quick 

He flies out of the room — love beckons him 
on; and I never have a doubt with regard to 
Tom’s affection for his wife 

I would follow, and take a hasty step forward, 


TOM CARTA RETS WIFE!" 


47 


when I remember what Tom said to me oefore, 
and come to an abrupt pause. I am not wanted; 
ani, indeed, a lawyer is of little use in a sick- 
room. Had I been a doctor by profession, the case 
might have been different. 

As I turn again, I find myself face to face with 
Smithers, who smiles and nods. 

“Very well done! Mr. Peters. I thank you for 
your valuable assistance in the service of justice. ” 

‘T don’t know that I made even a point for 
you, sir.” 

“Ah! that is because you do not see behind the 
returns. My eyes are differently constituted, and 
I discover things where all is a blank toothers.” 

“Indeed, Mr. Smithers, would you mind tell- 
ing me ^hat you discovered?” 

He smiles in his peculiar way. 

“You yourself have seen, Mr. Peters, that our 
friend Tom has a secret that he hugs to his heart 
in a desperate fashion.” 

I admit that with a nod. 

’’You believe you know — that is, you fear it — 
the nature of this secret; but you are wrong.” 

At this I open my eyes wide with astonishment. 
What in the world does the man mean? Of 
course, I suspect what Tom’s secret is — more than 
suspect, for I believe I know it. 

Instead of making any remark, I remain 
quiet, and Smithers goes on: 


48 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


“When I was talking with you before, Mr. 
Peters, it looked almost positive that Tom Car- 
taret was suffering the pangs of remorse for 
a deed done in the heat of passion. Since then, 
certain little things have come to my notice that 
have in a measure changed my views.” 

“Indeed!” is all I say; but that one word can 
contain volumes at times. 

I am as yet all in a fog with regard to his mean- 
ing — not the faintest gleam penetrates the mist 
surrounding me. Left to m3^self, I must grope 
around without much chance of seeing success 
ahead. Fortunately, the hand of Smithers is out- 
stretched to lead me from the labyrinth. 

He does not go at his point with a jump — 
that is not his way; but he gradually leads one to 
the edge of the falls, and then — lo! before you 
are aware of it, you are over. 

“When I heard you talking with your friend, 
I was quite taken with what you said regarding 
Tom’s wife. Mr. Peters, your faith in woman- 
kind is indeed charming. It is a shame to even 
make an attempt to break it up, but when you 
have had my experience in the world, you will 
have learned that things are not always what they 
seem. I have looked upon a face so angelic that 
one could fall down and worship it, and yet that 
same woman had deliberately poisoned three hus- 
bands for their insurance money.” 


TOM CARTARETS IVIFEP 


49 


"Very true, Mr. Smithers. I know there are 
such creatures in the world — it is a big world, 
and contains strange things; but I have always 
been accustomed to relying upon my judgment 
in such matters.” 

"Good enough, Mr. Peters. And in this case 
your judgment doubtless leads you to believe that 
a woman with the sweet face possessed by Tom 
Cartaret’s wife could not knowingly do wrong?” 

I bow my head in reply, although conscious, 
at the same time, that my position is weak, for I 
know lovely creatures have often been a source 
of trouble to those who love them — beauty serves 
to increase power in such cases. 

".I am not at all surprised at what you say, Mr. 
Peters, and I can honor your motives; but, as I 
said before, bitter experience, as years roll on, 
will give you different id:as. I would it were 
otherwise; but let it pass. We will return to 
our mutton. What if the charges contained in 
that letter were true?” 

"I can’t admit that." 

"You must, for the sake of argument." 

"God help poor Tom, then! " 

"Aye, God help any man who may have fallen 
into the clutches of a beautiful adventuress. Such 
a schemer would stop at nothing in order to ac- 
complish her ends — mark my words, Mr. Peters, 
I say nothing. " 

The Car tar et Affair 4 


50 


THE CART A RET A EE AIR 


Even then I fail to catch his meaning, although 
I look at him keenly, knowing he is up to some- 
thing There is little danger of our being inter- 
rupted, for Tom is doubtless busily engaged with 
his wife above. 

“Then, Mr. Smithers, you believe she is guilty 
as charged in the indictment,” touching my 
pocket where the accusing letter lies. 

At this he shakes his head naively, and I see 
I am dealing with a man who seldom adtuits a 
thing out and out. 

“Not exactly that, sir. I don’t believe in the 
old Roman plan of burning my ships behind me. 
A way of retreat is a good thing. All I will say 
is that, under the circumstances, it looks sus- 
piciously as though there might be some truth in 
the charge. I chance to know this Gautier.” 

“The deuce you do! ” 

“So far as my knowledge of him goes, he is a 
wealthy and accomplished French gentleman. 
I do not know that he would stoop to do anyone 
a foul wrong.” 

Somehow I feel sorely depressed. This man is 
beating down my defenses. He is trying to un- 
dermine my faith in womankind, inherited from 
my angel mother. I detest him for it, and am 
yet sensible of the fact that my experience with 
the gentler sex has been limited, for as yet I 


“rOA/ CARTARETS IVIFE!" 


51 


have never been made the victim- of a beautiful 
coquette’s wiles. 

“Mr. Smithers, you arc speaking with a pur- 
pose in view — kindly get around to the point 
you desire to make.” 

“I am getting there, my friend — there is no 
need of '^haste. When you asked Tom Cartaret 
to confide in you, his face was full of horror at 
the thought. He would sooner have died then 
and there than have trusted even you, his best 
friend, with the secret he carried.” 

“And yet, on top of this, you say you do not 
believe he is guilty! ” I stammer. 

“Exactly; but mark — he knows who is." 

His sinister words have the effect of still fur- 
ther baffling me — I grope again without seeing 
light. 

“Then, what in the world keeps him from tell- 
ing? It is his father who lies dead tliere, and 
every human tie should urge him to have the 
assassin apprehended. If Tom knows, or even 
suspects, who did this deed, he must be crazy 
to keep the secret.” 

“Not so crazy as you think, Mr. Peters. He has 
a good reason for silence. I believe you would 
do just as Tom is doing, under the same distress- 
ing circumstances.” 

Thank you. If I catch your meaning, then, he 
is trying to screen someone." 


5 ^ 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


"Your penetration is remarkable, Mr. Peters — 
but, then, you are a lawyer." 

I ignore the sly thrust. 

"Someone is to benefit by his silence and suf- 
fering — it must be one whom he cares for a 
great deal. Tell me, who is guilty, if not Tom? 

"Tom CartarePs wife!” he replies, solemnly. 


CHAPTER VI 


ONLY HIS ARM BETWEEN 

Well, it is out at last, and I am not so stag- 
gered by the intelligence as Smithers evidently 
expected, for, while he is speaking, a horrible 
suspicion of his meaning has crept into my 
brain, thus fortifying me in a measure for the 
disclosure. 

“Do you really mean what you say?” I ask. 

“You take it deucedly cool,” he replies. 

“I am a lawyer, you know; then, again, I do 
not believe what you say — that is, I am con- 
vinced you are on the wrong trail.” 

He is evidently nettled at my words, and I can 
see his teeth come together with an ugly snap 
that mean-s business. 

“Mr. Peters, it shall be my business to con- 
vince you that what I say is probably the truth.” 

“I would rather be excused,” I mutter, as I 
dislike the turn events have taken. It was bad 
enough for Tom to be under suspicion — but that 
sweet-faced girl-wife — heavens! it gives me a 
cold shiver to think of it. 

“Remember your promise to me, Mr. Peters. 

53 


54 


THE CHRTHRET AFFAIR 


It was to aid me, no matter at what personal 
sacrifice to ypur feelings.” 

"That is true, Smithers. ’’ 

‘‘Besides, I hope you don’t imagine I take any 
pleasure in such a business — it is a duty I have to 
perform. If it was some villain of a burglar 
who had done this deed, I would hunt him down 
with the keenest satisfaction; but a dainty thing 
like Tom Cartaret’s wife — ” 

He shrugs his shoulders to complete the sen- 
tence, and I understand him fully. 

‘‘See here, man, do you mean to tell me that 
delicate woman could take a knife and thrust it 
into the heart of an old man like Luther Cartaret? 
— impossible! ” 

‘‘Slips of girls have done things worse than 
that. Women have their share in the criminal his- 
tory of the world, as well as in its heroic achieve- 
ments. You remember Zenobia, Cleopatra, Joan of 
Arc, the Maid of Orleans, Charlotte Corday, who 
freed France from one despot (Marat) during the 
Reign of Terror, and that other Charlotte, who 
poisoned so many. Ah! my dear Peters, dismiss 
from your mind the absurd thought that a lovely 
woman can do no evil. In all ways they are the 
most dangerous'. I distrust them. Let us 
calmly analyze the case, and I will set the 
points before you as you might if addressing 
a jury. That indictment may, and may not be. 


ONLY HIS ARM BETIVEEN 


55 


true — we have no means of proving it one way 
or another. We do know that Luther Cartaret 
handed it to his son last night — perhaps read it 
aloud to him. As a sequence, old Luther lies 
yonder, murdered.” 

“Yes; go on,” I say, brokenly, yet breathlessly. 

"Now, since we have temporarily put Tom out 
of the case as the guilty one, let us suppose 
there was an eavesdropper at one of these doors 
at the time the indictment was read — that Tom^s 
wife heard the charges against her character. 
She may have entered Luther’s little room yonder 
— the door connecting it with the hall was not 
locked. Well, she hears those awful charges, and 
does not come out to indignantly refute them — that 
looks like guilt. She creeps upstairs to her own 
room, but does not retire. Seated in her chair, 
she sits there, brooding over the situation, until 
her blood is like molten lava. She hates the 
old man who has dared believe in her guilt. Tom 
comes up and goes to his room — for, in the German 
fashion, I understand they have separate, con- 
necting apartments. An hour later, say, she 
creeps to the door, hears the regular breathing 
of her husband, and understanding he is asleep, 
makes her way down-stairs, resolved in her mind 
to forever still tjie lips that have dared to speak 
ill of her to her husband. Are you following 
me.>” 


56 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


“Yes.” 

His way of putting the case is fascinating, 
and I forget that it is all a supposition — that he 
has really nothing tangible to found his evidence 
upon. So he continues in the same way, just 
as though he were describing something he has 
seen: 

“Tn the hall she comes upon your traps — the 
light from the open library door reveals them to 
her. Perhaps she is out of her mind for the 
time being, but she seizes upon the hunting- 
knife, draws it from its sheath, and steals for- 
ward to avenge the insult offered to her. The 
old man still sits in his chair — it may be he is 
asleep or meditating. Before him suddenly ap- 
pears the vengeful figure, weapon in hand, her 
eyes blazing with the fury of a woman scorned 
and burned into a fiend. He would shriek aloud, 
but his tongue cleaves to the roof of his mouth, 
and before he can give utterance to a single 
sound, that terrible blade has passed through his 
heart — the deed is done, and he dies with the look 
of horror stamped on his face.” 

I cover my face with my hands, as if to shut out 
the sight — his words have made it appear so nat- 
ural. When I remove them again, Smithers’ 
physiognomy is marked with a grin of pleasure, 
as though he takes my suggestive action as a com- 
pliment. 


ONLY HIS ARM BETWEEN 


57 


“She throws the deadly blade from her, and 
flies from the room; but there is a splash of blood 
upon the hem of her dress, of which she knows 
nothing. Smaller things than that have hanged 
people before to-day, Mr. Peters.” 

Remembering that spot myself, it seems to give 
an air of credence to his whole story, and with- 
out meaning to believe it, I cannot fail to see 
how easily it might all have been carried out 
just as he has put it. 

“Now, mark me again, Mr. Peters, I have not 
said that Tom Cartaret’s wife did this foul deed 
knowingly — she may have been out of her mind 
at the time, or in a trance.” 

“But it is not reasonable to believe that a 
weak thing like Tom’s wife could drive a knife 
with such tremendous power — you saw for yourself 
that the knife passed completely through his 
body. I doubt whether you or I could have done 
such a thing without exerting our utmost power. ” 

“True enough; but there are times when the 
weakest woman can show astounding strength, 
almost supernatural, in fact. I have seen a girl 
who hardly looked strong enough to lift a pail 
of water, and yet it took the united power of 
four men to hold her — she was crazy. I remem- 
ber another instance where a girl, a mere child, 
almost overcame two big men, who had to use 
ropes to hold her to her cot — she was in the de- 


58 


THE CHRTHRET AFFHIR 


lirinm of hydrophobia. I mention these in- 
stances to show you that appearances are deceit- 
ful. Under certain conditions, the weakest may 
develop abnormal strength. We have agieed 
that if Tom Cartaret’s wife did execute this 
wretched crime, she did it under strong excite- 
ment. That would explain many things." 

"Well, what do you purpose doing about it — 
arrest the lady on suspicion?” I ask, being irri- 
tated by the calm deliberation with which he has 
worked the case up. 

Perhaps there is something in the possible 
truth of his statements that serves to raise my 
temper — at any rate, I feel that he has the best 
of it all. 

"Dear me, no; that is not my way of doing 
things. Some men, as soon as they get a clue, 
arrest thejparty, and then endeavor to force a con- 
fession; but I work in another way, preferring 
to accumulate evidence, and leaving the arrest un- 
til I am dead sure of being right." 

"For that, at least, I can admire you, Smithers. 
You are a genuine detective — those you refer to, 
nothing but police spies. I know them well, as 
I have run across them in my practice. Such fel- 
lows are always ready to share with thieves the 
spoils they secure, and guarantee them immunity * 
from arrest. What is your plan, may I ask, if it 
be not too pertinent a question?" 


ONLY HIS ARM BETWEEN 


59 


"Mr. Peters, I already realize that I am to have 
a very disagreeable task in this house; but duty 
is duty with me, and I shall not shrink from doing 
what I believe to be right." 

"I can honor that resolution, sir. You are 
bound to carry out the orders of your chief.” 

"I was sent here to solve yonder mystery, and 
if mortal man can do it, I shall. You are not 
bound to do anything beyond a certain point, 
and if it jars upon your feelings, say so, and step 
out. " 

"I am deeply interested — you knew I would be, 
Mr. Smithers. Although I cannot do anything 
to assist you in your effort to fasten the guilt 
upon either Tom or his wife, I shall not betray 
your plans to a living soul. Besides, I may be 
of service to you." 

"It is a bargain, then, Mr. Peters." 

He insists upon shaking hands with me, al- 
though I feel as though I would just as soon 
take hold of a snake or a toad, as his cold dig- 
its; .but he means well, and I am willing to give 
him all the credit for it, so I accept his hand, 
and gravely shake it. 

"I shall probably remain about the house dur- 
ing the morning at least. The coroner will come 
at some time, but I will have the inquest post- 
poned as long as possible. It always interferes 
with detective work, for witnesses are bullied 


6o 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


into admitting absurd things, and the guilty par- 
ties take warning." 

This gives a breathing-spell at least. I have 
been dreading that hurried inquest, and the rough 
manner in which the family secrets may be 
dragged out for the gaze of the scoffing public. 

There is a skeleton in every closet, and no 
doubt the Cartaret closet is no exception. To 
outsiders, it may be very interesting and amus- 
ing, but how humiliating to those concerned, 
when the family secrets are bandied about by 
every idle fellow who chances to overhear the 
evidence. My sympathy goes out toward an 
afflicted family like the Cartarets; but fortune 
has decreed that they shall suffer, and apparently 
no human hand can ward off the blow. 

"I will leave you for a time Mr. Peters, but 
I will be somewhere near. It is my privilege 
to do as I please in this matter, and I have my 
way of gaining new evidence. If you discover any- 
thing of importance, and choose to let me hear it, I 
shall be obliged. One thing let me warn you 
against: in talking with Tom Cartaret, be care- 
ful how you approach the subject of his wife — 
he may take the alarm, and endeavor to entirely 
blot out the trail. I believe such a man as our 
friend would do anything to save the one he 
16 ved. ” 

At the time, Smithers’ last words sound odd to 


ONLY HIS ARM BETIVEEN 


6i 


me, and in the near future they come back to 
my mind with added significance. Yes, a man 
like Tom Cartaret would do much to screen the 
woman he loves and calls wife. I have seen him 
risk his life for a friend taken with a cramp 
while swimming in Long Island Sound, off New 
Haven — that friend was no other than myself. I 
have known him to run into a blazing house and 
save a child belonging to a poor Irish woman, 
barely escaping with his life. 

This is the man whose strong arm is the only 
barrier standing between Madge and the terror of 
the law. What can he do when Mr. Smithers has 
finished his case, and invokes the majesty of the 
law to his aid? 

The detective has left me — I fail to note 
whither he has gone, but find myself alone, and 
my reflections are bitter indeed. It seems as 
though a malign fate has sent me here to 
witness and perhaps be an unwilling participant 
in the downfall of Tom Cartaret’s happiness, 
and mentally I groan at the unpleasant prospect 
ahead. 


CHAPTER VII 

UNCLE JETHRO TALKS 

For a short time I stand there at the library 
window, lost in reflection. Turn whichever way 
I would, the prospect seems to be just as unin- 
viting, and I can see no loop-hole of escape — 
Tom must pass through the bitter furnace, and 
I can only hope that he will come out again puri- 
fied as by fire. 

Although my faith in womankind is so high, I 
must confess the logic of the detective has some- 
what staggered me. 

It does look black for Tom’s wife — here are 
two terrible accusations against her, either one 
or both of which maj^ be true. 

Will she, too, come from the furnace as fine 
gold, purified by the flames? Heaven grant it. 
If, on the other hand, the reasoning of Smithers 
should prove only too true, I am almost afraid 
for Tom Cartaret’s reason — he is so completely 
wrapped up in this girl-wife of his, that to find 
her guilty of such a crime would be a terrible 
shock. 

He married her abroad — she must be a for- 
62 


UNCLE JETHRO T/ILKS 


63 


eigner. I cannot even guess to what nation she 
belongs,, for her English, so far as I have heard it, 
is as perfect as can be. Perhaps she is a native 
of some country like Corsica, where the terrible 
vendetta flourishes, and weak girls, as well as 
strong men, are taught to avenge wrongs with the 
dagger. 

If this should prove to be the case, I can read- 
ily understand how she could thus punish old 
Luther Cartaret for daring to accuse her of such 
terrible things to her husband. 

These thoughts flit through my mind with a 
rapidity equal to lightning, and give me much 
worry. 

The fresh air that comes in at the open win- 
dow is so pleasant that I am impelled to put my 
head out, and thus discover that it is really but 
a few feet to the ground. Tempted by this fact, 
I finally give a jump, and find myself in the 
grounds. 

Here I can walk about, and feel better than 
when shut up in the room with that terrible 
figure stiffened in his chair. The blue sky above, 
with the sun dispelling the frost in the air, makes 
it a morning fit for the gods. Who could not 
enjoy such an atmosphere? 

Remembering a suggestion that had come to 
me while talking with the detective, I very nat- 
urally examine the spot underneath the window 


64 


THE CHRTHRET AFFAIR 


to see if anyone has been there recently, but 
the grass baffles me, and I admit that a lawyer 
is not a detective. Eyes more keen than mine 
might discover the evidence I seek, but I fail to 
find it. 

After that I walk on, and my thoughts begin to 
take another range. The fresh air does me good, 
and I no longer manage to only see the gloomy 
side of things, as when shut up in the library with 
that grim figure that awaits the coming of the 
coroner. 

So I wander around for some little time, en- 
joying the prospect. Luther Cartaret has a fine 
old place here in the suburbs of the city, and be- 
ing possessed of means, he has beautified it in a 
manner that charms the eye. The grand forest 
trees have been permitted to remain in many 
places, so that it seems to me like some Englisi. 
park, and this view is considerably heightened by 
the appearance of deer in a wire inclosure near 
by, the wire being invisible a short distance 
away. 

While thus wandering about, and lamenting 
the fact that such a black shadow has fallen 
upon the life of the young man to whom this 
noble property belongs, I find myself in the vi- 
cinity of the stables. 

The path I am traversing leads directly there, 
and I conclude to follow it to its legitimate end. 





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MY INTERVIEW WITH UNCLE JETHRO.— Page 66. 


UNCLE JETHRO TALKS 


65 


not doubting but that I can readily reach the 
house again from that point. Someone is at 
work near by, and presently I see the old darky, 
Uncle Jethro. He seems unconscious of my 
presence until I speak, and then gives a tremen- 
dous start, looking dreadfully alarmed. It is 
easy to see that Uncle Jethro has been greatly 
broken up by the terrible event that has taken 
place here within the last few hours. 

"You skeer de ole man, sah! My thoughts was 
fixed on de pore marse, an’ when you speak, I 
’clar to goodness I done thought ’twar him.” 

I have seen enough of the old darky to know 
him as an original character, and somehow the 
thought comes to me to speak with him about 
the tragedy. Here is a field the detective ha's 
not worked as yet — it does not look profitable; 
but, then, one cannot always tell what may be the 
result when fishing in strange waters. 

"Uncle, this is a sad thing for the house of 
Cartaret,” I remark, in a sympathetic tone. 

"It am, dat are a fact, sah," says Jethro, rub- 
bing at the carriage with a piece of chamois-skin. 

"You’ve been with Luther Cartaret a long 
time?” 

"We was boys togedder, down on de ole Vir- 
ginny plantation. When Marse Luther leab de 
ole home he took me wid him, and set me free. 
I’se done clung to him ebber since.” 

The Cartaret Ajjjair s 


66 


THE C^RTHRET /iFFAIR 


“He was married at that time?” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“And his wife died soon after Tom was 
born?" 

“Dat am a fact — she was nebber strong.” 

“I believe Mr. Cartaret married again?” 

Uncle Jethro gives signs of uneasiness. I can- 
not influence him to look at me, but he continues 
his work while he replies: 

“Yes, sah.” 

“When did his second wife die?” 

“You’se is a friend ob de fambly, Marse 
Peters?” 

“Tom’s dearest friend,” I reply. 

“Den I don’t mind tollin’ you what we wouldn’t 
like ebbery one to know. De second lady she 
wasn’t nothin’ like de ekal ob Marse Luther. 
She hab a quarrel wid him afore two years, an’ 
run away wid another man.” 

“Jupiter! that was tough, Jethro. Do you 
know what ever became of this second wife?” 

He ceases his work a moment to look in the 
direction oi the house, just seen through the trees, 
and then answers slowly, like a man weighing 
well every word he utters: 

“We lamed arterwards dat she throwed herself 
into de ribber when she quarrel wid de man she 
run away wid. Marse Luther nebber allow her 
name to be spoken in de house arter she runned 


UNCLE JETHRO TALKS 


67 


away;” and he again sets to work polishing the 
carriage wheel. 

There is something about the old man’s man- 
ner that vaguely suggests deceit. I do not know 
why he should act in that way toward me, but it 
may be he is suspicious of everyone, knowing a 
detective has come on the scene. 

“What was this second wife’s name, uncle?” I 
ask, meaning to work him around to the tragedy 
presently. 

“Rachel, sah,” he replies, in a low tone, and 
with a half -scared look around him, as though 
expecting the ghost of old Luther to suddenly 
appear and punish him for daring to mention 
that name aloud. 

“Uncle, on the way here you told me the old 
gentleman had come to a violent death, and that 
it was either a suicide or a murder?” 

“Yes, sah, I did,” solemnly. 

"Didn’t you know then that it could not possi- 
bly be a case of suicide — that some other hand 
than his own must have taken the life of Luther 
Cartaret?” 

As my eyes fall upon the darky’s face when it 
is turned toward me, I see that he looks stub- 
born and set in his way. Uncle Jethro can keep 
a secret as well as anyone, if it is ever intrusted 
Jto his care. 

“In spite ob de facts, Marse Peters, I sticks to 


68 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


de susancide theory. It am better for ebberyone 
concerned, an’ kaint do de ole massa no harm as 
I knows on,” he says, doggedly. 

It strikes me instantly that he is endeavoring 
to shield someone. Can it be possible he knows 
or suspects the truth? What other meaning can 
I impute to his words? The thought comes to 
me with force, and somehow an uneasy feeling 
creeps over me. If Jethro knows that either Tom 
Cartaret or his wife committed the murder, he 
cannot hope to conceal the fact long — at the in- 
quest the truth will be wrung from his lips, and 
even if he manages to elude them here by a sul- 
len denial of all knowledge, the cunning detective 
must soon bring him to terms. 

Perhaps I can influence him myself, though I 
hardly know why I should, save for my own satis- 
faction, as I could not turn any knowledge gained 
from this source over to Smithers, if it went 
against my friend. 

"Where do you sleep, uncle?” I ask. 

He gives me another of those quick looks, and 
nods toward the stable. 

"I has a room in dar, Marse Peters.” 

"Generally a sound sleeper?" 

"I am dat.” 

"How about last night?" 

"Didn’t rest ’ticularly well." 


UNCLE JETHRO TALKS 


69 


“Was it rather cold when you were out, uncle^ 
after midnight?” I ask, quietly. 

“Well, it was dat — how de debble you know? — 
who done tole you? — I don’t know nuffin about it. 
’Spect it was cold, though— frost dis mawnin’.” 

Uncle Jethro has given himself away readily — 
falls into my little pitfall with the greatest of 
ease. What chance would he have against such 
an accomplished schemer as the dark-faced man 
sent to investigate this thing? 

I am now positive of one thing: the darky 
knows enough to explain the mystery if he can 
be influenced to talk — if he does not exactly 
know, he suspects the truth. He was out in the 
grounds during the night — perhaps at the house 
itself. Could it be possible he has had a share in 
this strange crime? Nonsense! I might as well 
put that notion forever out of my head. The only 
share he has had in it is to endeavor to shield 
the guilty party by his silence. 

My thoughts go to the still form in the library 
that seems to call aloud for vengeance. If the 
trail only ran in some other direction, how hot I 
would be upon it; but under the peculiar circum- 
stances, I have little heart to pursue the scent, 
conscious that it constantly draws me nearer an 
unpleasant reality. 

The words and manner of the old ex-slave give 
away that which he would hide — the fact that he 


70 


THE GARTH RET AFFAIR 


knows something. Judging from his disposition, 
however, I am confident that thumb-screws will 
not cause him to openly confess while he be- 
lieves he is serving his master by silence. The 
rack would have no terrors for this faithful servant. 

There are other ways, however, in which the 
same end may be accomplished. 

“What took you out in the night, uncle?" I 
ask, steadily holding his eye, for I have a theory 
that by watching the human orb I can detect in- 
stantly when anyone prevaricates. The eye is 
the light of the soul, and expresses every feeling 
that moves the inward man. 

“Well, you see, Marse Peters, one ob dehosses 
war oneasy — sometime ago he got his foot 
cotched in a bar at de side ob his stall, and we 
hab a bad time. I tink dis happen agin, so I 
frow on some clothes and run down-stairs to de 
stalls. Nuffin’wai de matter, howebber, an’ I was 
jest about to go to my room agin, when I suddenly 
remembered dat I done leab a lap-robe out on 
de grass, an’ so I go out to bring it in — dar it 
is in de sun yonder. Dat de way I happened to 
be out in de grounds in de night.” 

“Uncle, your evidence might be of value to 
the coroner’s jury, because you were the only 
one about the house stirring at that time. It 
was bright starlight — no, the moon was up still, 
perhaps?" 


UNCLE JETHRO T/1LKS 


7 > 


He nods his head. 

“Yes, sah, de moon was jest ober in de west." 

“And, uncle — remember, a terrible crime has 
been done here, and you may help unravel the 
mystery — did you see anyone about the grounds 
at the time you were out?" 

“I hab reason to beliebe I did, Marse Peters,” 
he replies, a look of satisfaction on his wrinkled 
face. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE DOOR IN THE STONE WALL 

The reply is unexpected. Watching the old 
negro all the time, I have felt positive that, 
while speaking about the horse and the lap-robe, 
he is deliberately lying to me — his eyes .tell me 
that much. When, however, he declares his be- 
lief that he did see someone in the grounds on 
the preceding night, I cannot discover the same 
expression, and am ready to even believe he 
speaks the truth. 

That may mean a great deal, and I catch my 
breath before questioning further. 

“Now, un^le, how about this party you believe 
you saw in these grounds? — tell me all,” I finally 
ask. 

Uncle Jethro ceases his work upon the wheel, 
surveys it a moment, and then says: 

“Marse Peters, I was jest about to pick up de 
lap-robe, which lay right dar, wen I seed a fig- 
ger ober yonder, between de house an’ de stable. 
It seemed as dough de pusson war a tryin’ to 
hide hisself in de shadows.” 

“It was a man, then?” I put in, encouragingly; 
at which the old negro looks a little uneasy. 

72 


THE DOOR IN THE STONE IVALL 


73 


"Why, Marse Peters, you don’t ’spect de ladies 
be wanderin’ through de grounds at one o’clock 
in de mawnin’, does yer?" he demands. 

"It was one o’clock, then?” I pursue. 

"About dat time, sah. Yes, it war a man — I 
seed him as he passed from de shadow ob de trees 
to dat ob de house. My curiosity war excited, as 
I didn’t know why anyone hab de right to come 
in hyar at dat time, dough de marse he let de 
place be open in de day to all. De fust ting I 
done war to run back to de stable an’ get my 
gun — it am an ole army musket dat I used to 
hunt wid down in Virginny, an’ around hyar wen 
game was plenty. Wid dat I feel able to meet 
any man, an’ so I make de rounds ob de house, 
but I seed nobody, an’ finally ’eluded dat, who- 
ebber it war, he must hab gone away agin; so I 
return to de stable and go to sleep like an honest 
man what hab no one to fear, an’ de next ting 
I knowed, dat Chloe come an’ called to me, tellin’ 
me de awful facks. ” 

"Uncle, you say you went around tke house?” 

"Dat I did,” he stoutly insists. 

"Then you passed the library?” 

He anticipates my next question. 

"I seed de light dar, an’ knowed de ole marse 
must be readin’ in de library. Den I made up 
my min’ dat probably it war him as I had seed 
in de grounds. Marse Luther hab dat habit 


74 


THE C^RTHRET AFF/HR 


sometimes ob lookin’ at de stars. He somethin’ 
ob a writer — a poet, dey call um. ” 

"That eased your mind, uncle?" 

"Yes, sah. When I think dat way, I declar 
ole unc’ a fool, an^ go back to my bed." 

This is not an unlikely story — it may even be 
true; but I believe the negro has not told all he 
knows, by a good deal. At the same time, I 
hardly know how to handle him, lawyer though 
I am, without exciting his alarm. 

From his self-satisfied manner, it is evident to 
me that he believes himself secure in what he 
has said, and I do not want to disturb that feel- 
ing of equanimity. 

"Tell me just where you saw this figure." 

He points out the exact place, and describes 
the actions of the party, of whom he had a hasty 
glimpse in the misty moonlight. This he does 
with so much exactness that I am constrained to 
believe he speaks the truth. 

"If Luther Cartaret came out to walk in the 
night air, which door would he probably use?" I 
ask, with an idea in view. 

"De little side door — he allers did.” 

"Do you know whether that was locked this 
morning, uncle?” 

"I don’t beliebe it was, sah. As I ran to de 
house arter old Chloe done scart me outen a 
year’s growth, I seed dat identical door partly 


THE DOOR. IN THE STONE IVALL 


75 


open, an’ yet it war out ob my way, so I go in 
de back door.” 

Here is another point gained. I treasure these 
things, because they are apt to come in handy at 
some time in the near future, when the several 
links of the chain are united. 

‘‘Uncle, someone killed your old master, in 
spite of your suicide theory,- and it is our duty 
to find out who it was. On this account, I want 
to discover who was in these grounds last 
night, and you must help me.” 

‘‘Dat I will, Marse Peters,” he returns, with 
sudden animation that surprises me. ‘‘If it war^ 
dat sneakin’ critter what done took de marse’ s 
life, I hope to see him hanged for it.” 

Leaving the darky working away at his car- 
riage, I saunter toward the spot where he has 
directed me, and where he saw the figure of the 
man vanish. 

It is still early in the morning, and the sun 
feels very pleasant, when one has experienced 
the frosty air of the early dawn. I am an en- 
thusiastic lover of nature, and in my mind the 
autumn is the best time in the whole year. 
When the rich tints are on the trees, life seems 
filled with new ambitions, and one inhales the 
glorious atmosphere with the keenest relish. 
That is the time I love to be in the country — the 
sea-shore satisfies me in summer. 


76 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


I am not long in reaching the place where I 
have been directed. Somehow the sudden hope 
has arisen in my breast that, after all, it may be 
an outside party who is responsible for the death 
in the Cartaret family. Old Jethro seems to 
have suddenly had his mind set that way, and I 
indulge in a few speculations concerning the 
matter myself. 

It is always possible — the dead man may have 
had enemies outside; few men of wealth but 
who have at some time, in their active money- 
grubbing, made bitter foes. 

When I finally bend my head and make use of 
my eyes, looking for signs of the man who must 
have passed over this place if what old Jethro has 
said is true, I feel a satisfaction upon discover- 
ing the imprint of a shoe upon t'le soft earth of the 
flower-bed. 

Instantly I draw closer, and proceed to examine 
it. Luther Cartaret is a large man — his foot never 
made that imprint. I settle this in the start, 
and there is another reason why I should decide 
that the owner of Maplehurst could not have been 
the party whom Uncle Jethro saw — he would 
keep upon the gravel walks; this person went 
over flower-beds in a reckless fashion. 

My interest in the case deepens. Eagerly I 
follow the trail, careful not to mar it with my 


THE DOOR IN THE STONE IVALL 


77 


own footsteps, lest it may be desirable for any- 
one to go over the ground again. 

To my mind, the way in which these footsteps 
trend makes it look as though the party were flee- 
ing from the house; the assassin, terrified at 
what he has done, might have thus dashed away, 
pursued by the fiends of remorse. I catch at 
this slight hope as a drowning man might at a 
straw. Who knows what this new clue may not 
develop? lean put Smithers upon it at the first 
favorable opportunity, with the greatest of 
pleasure, because it will divert his mind from 
other things. 

The stronger the evidence becomes against an 
outside party, the more I will be pleased. Soon 
I lose the track — a grass-plot has been reached 
where the footprints fail to show. I notice the 
general direction taken by the person thus flee- 
ing from the house, and continue on my way, 
sauntering along as though just out enjoying the 
crisp November air. 

My judgment is good, for once more I run 
across the footprints where they strike another soft 
piece of earth. The direction is exactly the same 
as before — the person walking away undoubtedly 
knows whither he goes. 

Again I lose the tracks, nor do I come across 
them again; but the wall at the end of the park 
is near by, and keeping on in a direct line, I 


78 THE CARTERET AFFAIR 

soon reach it. attention is directed toward 

a heavy door in the wall. This may be fastened 
at times, but it certainly is not now, and governed 
by curiosity, I open it and look beyond. 

To my surprise, it opens into Quite a large 
cemetery — there is such a one at Clifton, and 
many burials from the great metropolis occur 
there every day. 

From the point where I stand the scene is 
quite impressive, for the ground rises a little, 
,and hundreds of white and gray tombstones can 
be seen as the eye ranges around. 

Undoubtedly, the unknown party left the 
grounds by means of this door in the wall, which 
very probably had been the means of his ingress 
also. I wonder whether this mysterious person 
carried away the secret of Luther Cartaret’s 
death, or if that secret is still to be solved un- 
der the roof of the desolated manse. 

How can the identity of the party be discov- 
ered? Would Smithers be of any help here? I 
feel that I ought to put him on the track at any 
rate, and am burning with the desire to lead the 
man away — anywhere, so that he has his zeal 
directed in another quarter than Tom CartareFs 
wife. 

Thus making up my mind, I turn my steps in 
the direction of the house, from which I have now 
been absent some time. If Tom has come down 


THE DOOR IN THE STONE IVALL 


79 


to the library again, he will be puzzled to ac- 
count for my absence. 

As I approach the house, I find myself closer 
to the little side door than any other, and the 
notion strikes me to enter there. I can thus satisfy 
my mind with regard to certain things connected 
with the case. 

Just as I lay my hand upon the door-knob, it is 
turned from the other side, the door opens, and 
I find myself face to face with — Smithers. 

He smiles. 

“Ah! enjoying a stroll about the grounds, eh, 
friend Peters, while I roam about the house? It 
is a pleasant morning for a ramble. I don’t 
suppose you have picked up any startling news. 
I saw you engaged with old uncle as I looked 
from an upper window,” he remarks. 

Thereupon I give him to understand that 
although the news I have gleaned is by no means 
startling, I have thought it best that he should 
hear it. 

“With pleasure, my dear' fellow. Come, there 
is a seat in yonder arbor; we will not be 
molested; the air is delicious, and I shall be de- 
lighted to listen to you.” 

When we are seated there, I briefly narrate my 
discovery, saying nothing about my conviction 
that Uncle Jethro tried to conceal his true knowl- 
edge or suspicions. 


8o 


THE CHRTHRET /tFFAiR 


Mr. Smithers is deeply interested in all 1 
say. Nevertheless, I realize that his former the- 
ory is not affected in the least. He has too 
many points of evidence leading toward Tom 
Cartaret’s wife, to let them drop easily. 

He admits that it is something that will bear 
analysis, and declares he will keep it in his cal- 
culations; but his manner does not go to reassure 
me that he will abate his vigilance in other 
quarters one iota, in order to look up this new 
evidence. 

I fear he has, in ransacking the house, found 
new evidence against one of the inmates — indeed, 
his manner tells me so, and I wonder whether 
he will confide it to my keeping. There is noth- 
ing in our agreement stipulating this, but he may 
choose to let me know what he has done. 

“On your part, Mr. Smithers, how does the case 
go?” I ask, finally. 

“It grows blacker every hour for Tom Cartaret's 
wife,” he replies, 


CHAPTER IX 


‘T ALONE AM THE CRIME-STAINED WRETCH ! ” 

His answer depresses me, and I am certain now 
that Smithers must have found out certain new 
features in the game. He sits there looking 
grave enough, but I can imagine his detective 
soul gloating over the success he has attained. 

“Then, you have discovered more connected 
with the^case?" I say, faintly. 

“Yes; while you turned your attention to old 
uncle, I assailed a more profitable source — the 
other black wing of the house — Aunty Chloe. ’’ 

I doubt the truth of his assertion regarding it 
being the more profitable source, believing that 
Jethro, if willing to speak, could do much toward 
clearing up this mystery — perhaps he was look- 
ing in at the library window and witnessed the 
tragedy. 

“What could she tell you of the murder?" I 
ask, when my surprise subsides. 

“Nothing, because she knows nothing; but she 
let fall a point under my cross-examination that 
has a direct bearing on the case." 

“Unconsciously?" 

6 8i 


82 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


“Dear me, yes. Good old soul, she would 
rather cut her tongue off than say a word that she 
thought would injure Tom’s wife, whom she 
seems to love almost as dearly as she does the 
young ‘marse.’” 

“What was the point in question?” 

“Just this: Chloe has a room situated at the 
top of the back stairs, and she always leaves 
her door open. Last night, she says she was 
awakened by some strange sound — she can’t say 
what it was like — but, startled, she got up and 
went to the window. The moon was still shin- 
ing outside, but she saw nothing to alarm her, 
and was just turning back to bed when a move- 
ment in the hall attracted her attention, and 
she boldly went to the door. To her astonish- 
ment, she saw a female form at the window in 
the hall looking toward the west — a figure 
dressed in white, and upon whom the moonlight 
fell, so that she had no difficulty in recognizing 
— Madge Cartaret!" 

I give a groan at his words, for it seems to 
me that they drive another nail in the coffin that 
holds all of poor Tom’s happiness. 

“She stood there a moment, and then, turning, 
went into her room. Aunt Chloe wondered at her 
being dressed at this hour. She concluded that 
the lady must have gone to sleep, seated in a 
chair, and, aroused by the same unknown sound 


THE CRIME-STAINED IVRETCH 


83 


that awakened her, had run to the hall window to 
look out. I was careful not to arouse her sus- 
picions, and she doesn’t seem shrewd enough to 
put two and two together. Privately, then, my 
opinion is to this effect: the sound that aroused 
the old negress was either the death-cry of Lu- 
ther Caftaret, or a shriek of joy from the person 
who, in a fit of crazed passion, sent your hunting- 
knife through his heart. Everything points to 
Tom Cartaret’s wife as the guilty one, and if the 
evidence accumulates at this rate, much against 
my will I shall eventually be compelled to cause 
her arrest. ” « 

I bend my head forward on my hands. At the 
same time, something like a groan reaches my 
ears — it cannot come from Smithers, who evi- 
dently believes it is myself from whom it ema- 
nates; but just at this moment I am feeling too 
miserable to investigate. 

"You will be in no hurry about this thing, I 
hope, Mr. Smithers?” I say at last. 

If the dreadful blow must fall, I would keep it 
off as long as possible, in the hope that some- 
thing may turn up; that is human nature always. 

"I am in no hurry. The lady is not apt to es- 
cape us, and can be found when needed. I shall 
let the matter simmer,” is the expressive way in 
which he puts it, and I draw a real breath of 
relief, for this will give me time to do a little 


84 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


work of my own, in the hope of ameliorating the 
melancholy condition in which Tom’s wife has 
been placed by what seems to me a miserable 
chain of circumstances. You see the charm of 
her sweet face is still upon me — I cannot as yet 
imagine her guilty of such a heinous crime, and 
until the proof is piled up against her, will con- 
tinue to hope it is all a grievous mistake. 

Mr. Smithers does not choose to tell me any 
more, even if he knows anything beyond what he 
has imparted to me, and presently I find myself 
alone in the arbor. 

The evidence placed before me has in a meas- 
ure stunned me, and I sit there for a few min- 
utes to recover my scattered forces, before going 
in to face Tom. How can I look him in the eye 
when such thoughts are in my mind? Having 
in a measure subdued my feelings, I at length 
rise to leave the arbor. Upon emerging from 
the place, greatly to my astonishment, I see some- 
one hurrying toward the house, and recognize Tom. 

A suspicion darts into my mind that gives me 
quite a shock. Can it be possible he has in some 
way overheard the plain accusation of the detect- 
ive? He is a man above listening to a conver- 
sation between others, but by some chance he may 
have heard mention made of his wife when 
Smithers first declared that the clouds were grow- 
ing black indeed for her. This would in itself be 


THE CRIME-STAINED JVRETCH 


85 


enough to make him listen, and what he heard the 
detective say was sure to turn his blood almost 
cold with horror. 

Poor Tom! How my heart goes out to him in 
the great throbs of friendship! I would like to 
let him understand how keenly I sympathize 
with him, but he knows that already, and I do 
not see how I can offer him a grain of hope, with 
the knowledge I possess. 

The best I can do, then, is to leave him alone. 
I even contemplate making a visit to the city 
in order to see this Gautier, and having it out 
with the man, but conclude to wait a while. 

So I once more enter the house. Tom I must 
see again, and if he knows all, I cannot help 
it. Through no fault of mine has this come 
about — I have done what I could to lead the 
pursuit in another channel. 

In the hall I meet him. His face looks worse 
than before, and shows concentrated suffering, 
such as I have seldom seen upon the human 
countenance. Wearily he motions for me to go 
into the parlor, which is across from the dining- 
room, and understanding that Tom has something 
to say to me, I obey. 

What is he about to do — admit his knowledge 
of his wife’s guilt, and then plead with me to 
help him save her from ignominy and shame? I 
can do a good deal for Tom, and even in this I 


86 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


may be able to help him; but it is a delicate 
task, and I somehow shrink from it. 

Nevertheless, I go into the drawing-room, and 
drop back in the embrace of an easy-chair that 
offers support. 

Tom cannot sit down; he seems too restless, 
and looking at the man, I feel that he has nerved 
himself for a trying ordeal. Something is on 
his mind — anyone can read that — and he has 
reached a point beyond which he finds it impos- 
sible to go. 

Thus, walking up and down, he directs his words 
to me, and I feel their burning force: 

"John! heaven grant, my dear boy, that you may 
never experience the bitterness of soul anguish 
that is upon me now. There is nothing that can 
help me, and it were better that I lie beside my 
poor father, in yonder library, than live to see our 
name trampled in the dust of a murder trial in 
court." 

He takes a few more paces before continu- 
ing: 

"Unintentionally, John, I overheard a certain 
communication between that man and yourself. 
The shock it gave me nearly killed me. Can 
it be possible that you believe Madge guilty of 
such a terrible crime as that?" 

"I do not. I have declared her innocent, but 
he, the man-shark, thinks her guilty, and he will 


THE CRIME-STAINED IVRETCH 


87 

not let grass grow under his feet until he has 
accomplished his purpose." 

"He shall not harm her; not if I have to — kill 
him first. The man who lays a hand on her 
must do so over my body. She is my wife! " 

It is indescribable, the way he says this. His 
head is elevated proudly, and just then I seem 
to feel that to be Tom Cartaret’s wife is better 
than to be a queen. 

"'Ah! poor Tom; your arm would defend her, 
but what could you do against the law?" I say, 
in pity for his despair. 

Then he turns upon me almost savagely. 

"I could die for her,” he mutters, brokenly, 
"my poor, misjudged Madge. Suppose she did do 
this awful thing, it was while not in her senses, 
and because she believed it would aid me. But 
what am I saying! she is innocent! — of course she 
is innocent! " he almost raves in his despair; and 
the more he repeats these words, the deeper 
grows my conviction that he does not believe 
them. 

I wonder what scheme he has in his head now, 
with a view toward saving Madge — a desperate 
one, to be sure. Can he be losing his mind 
over the great trouble that has fallen upon him? 

I have noticed a crafty gleam in his eyes once or 
twice that gives me alarm. 

Good heavens! if Tom goes crazy, who can 


88 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


tell what mad freak he may indulge in, even to 
putting the prying detective out of the way, so 
that the truth may not be known. That would 
be madness personified. I begin to fear him a 
little, and wish this thing were settled one way 
or another. What was the good of delay, anyhow? 
I had desired it before, when talking with the 
detective, but my ideas have undergone a 
change. If Tom’s wife is guilty, the truth must 
come out sooner or later anyway; while, should 
she be innocent, it is an outrage to suspect her. 

“Tom, I beg you to calm yourself. God knows I 
believe in your wife’s innocence, and I am ready 
to work night and day to prove it. If the worst 
should come, I am sure we will be able to dis- 
cover that she did this dreadful thing while in a 
trance of some sort. ’’ 

He hardly seems to hear me, but striding up 
and down quickly, his head bent upon his breast, 
is lost in thought. 

It is not hard for me to imag’ine the channel 
in which his mind runs. He sees his disgraced 
and desolated home — his beloved wife torn from 
his arms, and thrust into a felon’s cell — the 
whole story held up to public inspection in 
court and in the daily papers. 

No wonder he grinds his teeth. He is doubtless 
thinking of how Philip Gautier will be brought 
up as a witness, and swear to a pack of lies in 



“CAN IT BE POSSIBLE HE HAS OVERHEARD OUR CONVERSA- 
TION.’'— Page 84. 




THE CRIME-STAINED IV RETCH 89 

connection with Tom Cartaret’s wife, the woman 
who once refused his love. 

In Tom’s place, I believe my brain must have 
snapped under the strain, and I do not wonder 
he shows such wretchedness in his face. 

Suddenly ceasing his nervous walk, he comes 
to a stand in front of me, and, bending down, 
says, in a voice strangely calm: 

“John Peters, will you carry a message to that 
man for me?” 

“You mean the detective?” 

“I do.” 

“Let me have the message,” I say, expecting 
some defiant outbreak. 

“Tell him,” he continues, in that awful voice, 
a stage-whisper, “that my wife is innocent of 
that crime. When he wants the guilty party, let 
him arrest the one who in anger had cause to 
strike a blow in defense of his wife’s honor. I, 
Tom Cartaret, and I alone, am the crime-stained 
wretch he seeks! ” and without another word, he 
turns and leaves the room, while I sit and glare 
after him in breathless astonishment. 


CHAPTER X 


RIVALS 

"That is a lie!" says a quiet voice close to my 
elbow, and turning quickly, I behold the omni- 
present Smithers. 

I have not dreamed of his presence — indeed, 
for the time, the man has quite slipped my mind 
until I am thus harshly reminded that there is 
such a being in the world. 

The words of Tom Cartaret have fallen on my 
ears with stunning force, and leave me in a very 
peculiar condition of mind. If Tom chooses to 
confess his guilt, of course that ends the matter — 
so it would seem, at any rate. 

The detective has been concealed behind a 
sofa during the interview. Whether he was in 
the room when we entered, or crept to his hid- 
ing-place while we talked, I do not know, for I 
believe him capable of anything; but the former 
is, in all probability, the truth. 

He advances toward me with a grin upon his 
dark face, seats himself just in front, and then 
nods his head knowingly. 

"I repeat what I said, Mr. Peters — that is a 
lie!" 


90 


RIVALS 


91 


"I half believe you are right myself, sir; but 
what object — ” 

"Object? Why, Mr. Peters, that man loves his 
wife— he is ready to sacrifice himself in order to 
save her. That is all." 

I see it plainly now. 

Noble Tom! well worthy of one's friendship 

I feel proud of him. There come to my memory 
words that fell from his lips — he had said he 
could die for her, and now he is about to put it 
into deeds. 

A rush of emotion sweeps over me, and I feel 
that, no matter at what cost, he must be saved — 
that it would be madness to allow him to carry 
out such a scheme as this. 

"You have no idea of taking him at his word, 
then, and arresting him?” I ask. 

"Not at all. If a rascal on the street should 
come up to me and declare himself guilty of this 
crime, I might lock him up until I could investi- 
gate, but without dreaming that he could be 
guilty. As for Mr. Cartaret — well, I am here on 
the spot, and working this case, and I can see 
through a millstone that has a hole in it.” 

I breathe easier after he has spoken. 

"Have Tom's actions weakened or strengthened 
the case against his wife?” I pursue. 

"The latter is the fact. We know now that 
even her husband has suspected her from the 


92 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


start. He must have seen her come into her 
room on that night, thought little or nothing 
about it at the time, but when the awful truth 
came in the morning, he was able to associate 
the two.” 

"No wonder his face was ashy pale ! To lose 
a father and a wife in one night is enough to 
pull the stoutest man down.” 

“I reckon it is. I, too, feel deuced sorry for the 
young man, but duty is iron-bound with me, and 
must not be trifled with. From* present appear- 
ances, the case is hard against her.” 

“Nothing can be done to help her.?” 

“Nothing, sir.” 

“Do you know, Mr. Smithers, I had a strange 
thought bearing on the matter.” 

“I should be pleased to hear it. You lawyers 
are notorious for striking pay-dirt when every- 
one else has abandoned the claim.” 

Mr. Smithers is disposed to be something of a 
flatterer — I can easily see he is in a good humor, 
because his case is working so well. That is, 
above all other things, his especial pride, and 
everything else must give way before it. 

“Could it be possible that Tom Cartaret^s wife 
has done this deed, and is unconscious of it?_” 

He eyes me in a peculiar way, playing nerv- 
ously with his watch-chain the while, and it is 
a full minute before h=^ thinks to reply. During 


RIVALS 


93 


that time there is no telling what a legion of odd 
thoughts may have gone flashing through that 
wonderful brain of his. 

“Jove! Mr. Peters, it is just as I suspected — 
you have gone and struck pay-dirt at once." 

“Then, you think there is a remote possibility 
of such a thing being true?" I ask, eagerly. 

Could I prove this, it must relieve Tom of a 
certain amount of his load, though it would still 
be heavy enough, heaven knows. 

“Such a thing is possible, but not probable.” 

I have a new hope, however. 

“Mr. Peters, tell me, what put this strange 
idea into your head?" he continues. 

“When she came into the library, while I was 
talking with Tom, the look on her face, and her 
startled exclamation, told me that one of two 
things was the case. Some terrible consciousness 
had burst upon her like an electric flash. She sud- 
denly realized that she must herself be responsi- 
ble for that crime, or believed, in the flash of the 
moment, that Tom’s quarrel with his father had 
been followed by his taking the old man’s 
life." 

“Mr. Peters, you read faces well, and I am in- 
clined to give you the benefit of the doubt. How 
could she be ignorant of having done such a deed 
until the sight of the body suddenly forced con- 
viction to her soul?" 


94 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


I am quite prepared to meet his question — it 
does not stagger me in the least. 

“Suppose the woman is addicted to strange 
freaks of somnambulism — is it not possible she 
could do such a thing in her sleep?” 

“Possible — yes, anything is possible — but 
hardly probable,” he replies, smiling forlornly, as 
though he does not imagine my theory will hold 
together. I realize myself how weak it is, but 
that does not prevent me from clinging to it des- 
perately, as a last chance. 

“I mean to find out from Tom, at the first op- 
portunity, whether he knows anything about his 
wife’s habits — if she is a sleep-walker, surely he 
ought to know it.” 

“Success to you.” 

“How about the other side? If she is innocent, 
or totally unconscious of her guilt, having com- 
mitted the deed in a fit, then she undoubtedly be- 
lieves Tom the guilty party.” 

“Granted,” says Smithers, nonchalantly, as 
though the matter w’ere hardly worth attention. 

I am surprised at his manner, but, then, he is 
not interested, like myself, in proving the inno- 
cence of Tom’s wife. The case to him at present 
is beautifully rounded out, and while he holds 
the reins and drives, it matters little to him, 
professionally, who is hurt.. 

We rise to leave the room. 


RIl^ALS 


95 


"By the way, I sent a message to the city — to 
the man Gautier," he says, suddenly. 

At this I start. 

"What did you say to him?" 

"I told him of the crime that had been com- 
mitted here, and that I trusted he would not leave 
the city, as he might be needed as. a witness 
against Tom Cartaret’s wife." 

Somehow his words give me a cold chill. I can 
feel the folds of the great anaconda tightening — 
escape for her seems impossible. 

"I suppose that is a part of your business, Mr. 
Smithers; but I, for one, would hate to be in a 
profession which necessitated my proving a deli- 
cate lady like this one guilty of murder." 

"She is no more to be pitied than a shop-girl," 
he declares, with sudden energy, revealing to me 
the fact that, deep down in his heart, he is some- 
thing of a socialist, detesting the upper classes. 

"That is quite true. Crime should be punished 
as severely among the rich as among the poor: — 
in fact, I believe the punishment should be heav- 
ier, for they do not have the temptations that 
come to those who struggle for their daily bread. 
I did not mean because she was a lady, but that 
it was a helpless woman you were running to 
earth. Nor am I blaming you, Mr. Smithers, for, 
as I said before, duty is duty, no matter if it 
does seem unpleasant at times." 


96 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


"You are a sensible man, Mr. Peters." 

"I thank heaven that I do not have to hound 
women to their death, at least. How did you 
send your message to Gautier?” 

"By mail; the butcher said he was going by the 
town post-office, and would mail it.” 

"Mr. Smithers, do you know what I am sorely 
tempted to do?” 

"What is it?” languidly. 

"To open up an opposition detective bureau to 
yours — to endeavor to prove this lady^s innocence 
while you try to declare her guilty.” 

He looks at me in surprise. 

"Either you are out of your mind, Mr. Peters, 
or else you have struck a promising clue,” he 
says. 

At that I give a low laugh. 

"You think I am bold. Possibly so, but you for- 
get it is my natural forte to defend people; I 
have never played the prosecutor yet. Do you 
accept the challenge?" 

"Just as you say; but I warn you, my dear fel- 
low, that you have undertaken a task that Her- 
cules might have shrunk from. The evidence is 
overwhelming, I might say.” 

"There may be a loop-hole where I can get a 
foothold,” I reply, quietly. 

It pleases me to* see him look uneasy. I ex- 
perience a sort of fierce satisfaction in thus 


Riy/iLS 


97 


touching up his nerves, not that I have much 
hope of success, but the situation is desperate, 
and requires a like remedy. 

"Well, good luck to you, Mr. Peters. I can ad- 
mire your motives, if not your ambition. We may 
yet have a little engagement in the arena. Re- 
member, I shall show you no mercy." 

"And I ask none," I reply. 

When I find myself alone, my thoughts go out 
to the man in New York — Gautier. 

Can I not, in some way, cause him to leave the 
city before he receives the letter written by the 
detective? My mind is made up — I will pay him 
a visit. 

Running across old Jethro in the grounds, I ask 
him a few questions, and learn that in ten min- 
utes or so a stage will pass the place, bound for 
Clifton, and that if I am outside, I can secure 
a ride to the depot, where a train for New York 
will not be long in arriving. So I bid the old 
man tell Tom I have gone to the city on some 
business I have neglected, but that I will take 
the earliest train back. Luckily, Mr. Smithers 
does not see me — he might suspect the truth, 
and in some way contrive to thwart my plans. 

I have given the darky instructions not to let 
the detective know where I have gone, and as 
Uncle Jethro fears and dislikes the man, he is 
not apt to deceive me. 

The Car tar et Affair 7 


98 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


Hardly have I reached the road before I see a 
cloud of dust approaching, and the stage appears. 
At my signal it stops, and I find room inside. 

Reaching Clifton, I learn I have half an hour 
to spare, and loiter about the station. 

A number of shops are opposite, and the post- 
office near by. A butcher’s wagon is drawn up at 
the curb, and I recognize the driver as one I 
have seen before — he must have come to Tom’s 
house for orders. Then, this is the man to whom 
the detective intrusted his letter. 

I walk over and accost him. 

“Beg pardon, but are you the man my friend up 
at Cartaret’s gave a letter to mail?" 

He starts, and his hand involuntarily goes half- 
way up to his pocket. 

“Yes, sir." 

“Have you mailed it?" 

“Immediately I arrived — it went on the next 
train to the city." 

I know he lies— I can read it in his face — but 
have no reason to accuse him of it; so I return 
to my place at the station. 

In a few minutes I see the butcher boy sneak 
into the post-office, and I smile, for he goes to 
mail the letter he has forgotten. He is just like 
all other members of the male sex — forgetful of 
the letter in his pocket. 

It helps me out, and I Qan afford to laugh. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE OFFfCE OF M. GAUTIER 

At 11:30 I find myself walking up Broadway, 
in the neighborhood of Union Square, looking 
for the number that has been given as the address 
of Philip Gautier. 

The detective knows him, and has said there 
is no reason to believe him other than a gentle- 
man; but I have my own ideas on the subject, 
and intend to do some good work for Tom 

Ah ! here is the number at last. I look over 
the directory upon the wall, and find that Philip 
Gautier has room 27, on the third floor. 

When I reach it, I see his name in gold letters 
there, but no indication of his business. I knock, 
and a voice calls out: 

•‘Enter.” 

The office is nicely fitted up, even to paint- 
ings on the wall, and I see that M. Gautier 
has an eye for the beautiful. Still, there is no 
indication of his business. 

A desk stands near the windpw, and seated at 
this is a man, French in his looks, not unhand- 
some in his way, but, if I am any judge of char- 
acter as expressed by the face, unprincipled. 

99 


lOO 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


It strikes me that this is my man, and I study 
him even in the short time I stand there, while 
I notice that an uneasy look upon his face has 
been succeeded by one of relief. 

Evidently he has feared his visitor might prove 
to be someone else — my mind immediately goes 
to Tom Cartaret. 

“Am I right in believing this is M. Gautier?’’ 

He bows. 

“M. Philip Gautier?’’ I continue, it being my 
desire to be as ceremonious as possible. 

“You are quite right, sir.” 

His English is remarkably good — there is just 
the faintest tinge of a foreign accent. I rather 
like it. 

All this while I am studying the face of the 
Frenchman, and I make up my mind that he is 
not possessed of a very stiff backbone, which is 
all the better for my purpose. 

'T have a little business with you, M. Gautier. 
Permit me to hand you my card,” which I do 
with a bow. 

He glances at it. 

“Ah! a lawyer.” 

“Yes, and the personal friend of Tom Cartaret.” 

At these words a swift change passes over his 
countenance. He looks alarmed. I am already 
convinced that I will not have a great deal of 
trouble with my man. 


THE OFFICE OF M. GAUTIER loi 

"Indeed!" is the only reply he makes. 

I assume a stern look, and my countenance 
is such that upon occasions I can appear very 
fierce. 

"I presume there is no need of my introducing 
the subject, M. Gautier. You can guess in your 
soul why I am here.” 

"You flatter me," he stammers. "I have known 
one Tom Cartaret, but cannot conjecture why he 
should send you here." 

"Ah I my dear man, he has not sent me; he does 
not know of my coming — indeed, he would be 
very angry if he knew of it.” 

"You speak in riddles.” 

Upon this, I take out the infamous letter sent 
to Luther Cartaret. Slyly watching my man while 
I pretend to be engaged with the paper, I see 
him start and his eyes dilate. This is all I need 
to convince me that he is guilty. 

"You have seen this before, M. Gautier — do 
you know one Jules Garribrant?" 

"Yes; he is a friend of mine." 

"A very intimate one?" 

"Possibly. " 

"In fact, my dear Gautier, he is — yourself.” 

At that he gives a defiant little laugh. 

"You make a bold assertion — how will you 
prove it?" he asks, mockingly. 

"Thus." 


102 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


I simply pick up a letter he has been writing, 
and hold it side by side with the other. A novice 
could easily see that the same hand penned both. 

Gautier laughs hysterically again. 

"That’s the lawyer of it, I suppose." 

"You admit its truth?" 

"Well, what then?" defiantly. 

I move my chair a little closer. 

"Just this, M. Gautier: your life is not worth 
a pinch of snuff if you are the man who has dared 
write these lies respecting the honor of Tom Car- 
taret’s wife." 

The man is a natural coward, which can be 
said of few Frenchmen. He evidently believes 
I am about to avenge the insult on the spot, 
for he moves away from me. 

"Monsieur, you would not use violence? I am 
unarmed, and not of your size.” 

"So much the worse for you, then. But fear 
not; I do not mean to lay a hand on you. There 
is one coming after me who can avenge his own 
wrongs. ” 

"Sacre! you mean — " 

"Tom Cartaret, the husband of the lady whom 
you have so foully slandered in this document," 
rapping the paper violently. 

“By that time I shall be armed,” he mutters, 
an ugly light creeping into his eyes. 

"’Armed! Good heavens! man, if you were 


TH£ OFFICE OF M. GAUTIER 103 

armed a dozen times, it would avail you nothing, 
the man is stark mad on the one subject of 
taking your life. He will find you if you are in 
New York two hours from now. Let me tell you 
what has happened: he has quarreled with his 
father about this paper, and there has been 
bad blood spilt. Tom swears it is all your 
fault, and he will have your life if he follows 
you to Hades. He is coming now — I managed 
that he should miss the train that I got. You 
have just one hour, M. Philip Gautier, and then 
a crazy man will be hammering at your office 
door, seeking .your blood — just one hour to live, 
if you are a fool.” 

I have the enemy on the run. The Frenchman 
is badly frightened at the picture I have laid 
before him, and will come to terms. 

Of course he does not suspect the truth, for he 
has not an inkling of the game. 

"Why have you come to warn me? — you have 
never seen me before. ” 

"Bah! man, it is not for love of you I do this, 
but to save my friend from murder. I reasoned 
with him as long as I could, and, you see, was 
finally forced to try diplomacy.” 

"An hour, you say?” looking at his watch, and 
I notice how the coward’s hand trembles. 

"At the outside. You must be on your way to 


104 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


the station, unless you desire to meet him and 
have a life-and-death struggle here.” 

“I am a prudent man, monsieur, and I do not 
care to enter another world just yet. You say 
he is a madman?" 

“Mad as a March hare, and only thirsting for 
your blood. ” 

“I will go. It is best, perhaps.” 

Even in his alarm I see a sardonic smile ap- 
pear on his face. The villain rejoices in the 
fact that he has brought trouble upon those he 
hates — the woman who scorned h’s love, and the 
successful rival who won the prize. 

I feel almost tempted to do a little chastising 
myself, and the fellow would be but a pigmy 
in my athletic grasp, but, being a lawyer, I for- 
bear — the legal consequences of such a little 
frolic would hardly be counterbalanced by ihe 
enjoyment I might take in the deal. 

I sit there, and see M. Gautier begin to pack 
certain papers in a hand-bag. 

“I shall remain until you are ready to go, M. 
Gautier, for fear this mad husband may manage 
in some way to get into the city sooner than I 
expect. At the worst, I hope to have some in- 
fluence over him, though I do not imagine it 
wouM do any good. In his present frame of 
mind, he lives but for revenge, and would pass 
any barrier to get at you.” 





“I HAVE A LITTLE BUSINESS WITH YOU, MR. GAUTIER." 

—Page 100. 



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THE OFFICE OF M, GAUTIER 105 

“I have seen Tom Cartaret in action, and, mon 
Dieu! I do not want to be pulverized. He stole 
my love away. I swore revenge — I have had it, 
but do not care to pay for it with my life." 

Thus muttering, the French masher proceeds 
to gather up the valuable papers. 

"What will you do with these?” I ask, point- 
ing to the paintings around. 

"I know a man who will take my office and 
pay me a fair price — on the way to my lodgings 
I shall see him,” he replies. 

"You will be wise to put the sea between your- 
self and Tom Cartaret as soon as possible.” 

"I shall. There are other reasons that call 
me back to La Belle France, of which you know 
nothing. A steamer sails this afternoon — I shall 
have time to gain it.” 

I feel contented. In the first move of the game 
I have checked the enemy’s king — perhaps Mr. 
Smithers may not find a lawyer such a fool for 
an antagonist, after all. 

After a while Gautier announces himself as 
ready to move. I offer him my hand. 

"Monsieur, permit me to wish you bon voyage. 
You are a sensible man — only a fool would remain 
when there was everything to lose and really 
nothing to gain.” 

He seems pleased at my rather ambiguous praise, 
and shakes hands cordially. 


io6 THE CHRTARET AFFAIR 

' Parbleu, monsieur; we may meet again. Au 
revoir;" and with a salute he is gone, the key 
of his office thrust into his pocket. 

I experience a wonderful sense of relief when, 
stepping to a window in the hallway and look- 
ing out, I see the Frenchman call a cab,, jump in, 
and the vehicle go dashing madly away. 

That is one danger out of the way. 

The thought occurs to me that he may have his 
letters forwarded somewhere, and I make up my 
mind to try and intercept the one from Mr. 
Smithers. 

Hardly have I reached the door below before a 
postman comes along. 

"Anything for M. Gautier?” I ask. 

He glances at me, and thrusts a letter into my 
hand, passing on. One look tells me how luck 
is playing into my game — the letter is postmarked 
Clifton. I calmly put it in my pocket, and walk 
down the street. 

It is dinner-time, and my thoughts are toward 
appeasin-g the inner man. Walking down Broad- 
way, I enter a restaurant, and in half an hour have 
accomplished my purpose. 

Now for Clifton again. A great way to spend 
one^ s vacation, this is; but I mean to stand by Tom 
as long as I can do him any good, and when the 
crisis has passed, go off alone for an outing. 

I am in time for the train leaving at 2:07, 


THE OFFICE OF M. GAUTIER 


107 


and when flying along into the country once 
more my spirits rise — the lovely foliage again 
cheers me, and I begin to hope for the best. 

Every time I think of Smithers I grin, for 
it is certainly a feather in my cap to be able to 
outwit that keen individual. 

I have secured a morning paper and an early 
edition of an afternoon sheet. The latter gives 
a dozen lines to the mysterious death of Luther 
Cartaret, but promises its readers further details 
on the morrow, hinting at the crime being the 
work of a discharged servant — which idea must 
have originated in the reporter’s brain. 

Turning from this sensational sheet to the staid 
Herald, I find that a vessel of the French Trans- 
atlantic Line — La Bourgogne — sails at 2: 30 — it is 
just that as I read, and I chuckle at the reflection 
that Monsieur Gautier is on board, while I think 
of the letter I am the bearer of to its writer. 

We near Clifton. I will have to hire a vehicle 
of some sort to take me to Maplehurst, but there 
is a livery stable near the station, and that will 
be no trouble. 

I wonder if any new developments have arisen 
in the case since my departure, and what the 
detective has been up to. 

Then Clifton is called. I leave my seat, step 
off the train, and come face to face with the ob- 
ject of my thoughts, who is pacing the platform. 


CHAPTER XII 


MR. SMITHERS FINDS HIMSELF LEFT 

At sight of me, Mr. Smithers smiles, but I no- 
tice he looks uneasy. 

"Hello! Peters, where have you been?" he ex- 
claims rather boisterously. 

"To the city on a little business," I reply. 

"You’re in luck. Uncle Jethro brought me over 
in the light wagon — he came to do a little mar- 
keting, I reckon — there’s the vehicle yonder, and 
3^ou are saved the expense of hire." 

"That is luck, indeed. But whither away? Are 
you off duty?" 

"Not at all. I am merely following my let- 
ter,” he replies, quietly. 

My time has come. 

"You mean to M. Gautier?" 

"Yes." 

I hand him the letter. 

"Tit for tat — I save you a useless journey." 

"Confusion! where did you get this? — it is 
postmarked at Clifton," he cries. 

"It arrived after M. Gautier had gone." 

"Gone?" 

"Yes, to the steamer." 

io8 


MR. SMITHERS FINDS HIMSELF LEFT 


109 


"Mr. Peters, do you mean to tell me — " 

"That M. Philip Gautier, in deadly fear of 
the mad husband who seeks his life, is now on 
the steamer La Bourgogne, steaming down New 
York harbor, bound for France.” 

He looks as if paralyzed for a moment; then 
bursts into a laugh, and seizes my hand. 

"Good heavens! Peters, what a fool you were 
to adopt the law as a profession, when you have 
the making of a detective in your head.” 

"Thanks,” I return, dryly; "but I prefer the 
more honorable calling. It does not please me 
to hunt down women and wretched men. I 
would rather try to assist poor humanity hunted 
by sharks in the guise of men.” 

He shrugs his shoulders at my remark, but 
does not resent it. I can see that the man has a 
higher opinion of my abilities than he had before, 
and this gives me satisfaction. 

"Well, there is no need of my going into town, 
then, if Gautier has flown, and I might as well 
return with you.” 

So we cross over to where the two-seated light 
wagon with the span of horses stands. Uncle 
Jethro coming out, grins when he sees his passen- 
gers, and shoving his purchases under the seat, 
announces himself ready to return. 

I enjoy the ride back. 

Mr. Smithers does not say much, but I am con- 


no 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


scious of the fact that his eyes are on me very 
often, as though I have become an object of new 
interest to him. 

Of course, now that war has been declared be- 
tween us, he will no longer confide to me what he 
may have discovered, and hence I am left quite 
in the dark as to whether anything new has come 
upon the carpet since I left. 

A man of such remarkable activity as Smithers 
could not rest inactive for hours, so I conclude 
he has been prying around the place. 

When he discovered my flitting I do not know, 
but it must have been quite a time after my de- 
parture, judging from the train he was about to 
take. 

We reach Maplehurst, and find all quiet. 

“The coroner was here,” remarks Smithers. 

“Ah! and the inquest?" 

“Will be held to-morrow. I persuaded him to 
put it off, and he agreed. With his jury he in- 
spected the body and the room, leaving the tak- 
ing of evidence until a later hour." 

“That is good," I remark. 

“Yes, it gives us a chance to work. Before 
that time has elapsed, I hope one of us will have 
struck a winning gait." 

“Ditto, Mr. Smithers." 

“Do you know, Peters, Pm growing a little 
fearful about you. This trick was as sly a dodge 


MR. SMITHERS FINDS HIMSELF LEFT 


nr 


as ever I heard of. Why, man alive! I couldn’t 
have do4ie it better myself." 

"That is praise indeed." 

"Well, I’ve been brought up to the business, 
and you’re but an amateur — that’s what gets me. 
I really didn’t believe it was in you." 

He speaks earnestly, and I believe he means it, 
but I smile without replying. Perhaps the op- 
portunity may come yet when I can show him 
there is something more in the man of law. I 
never wished for anything half so much in my 
life, partly on my own account, but more because 
of poor Tom, for a victory on my part would 
mean relief to him. 

In the house I part from the detective, who en- 
ters the library. I do not care to go into that room 
again, feeling that the less I see of that grim 
figure the better. As the coroner’s jury has 
viewed the remains, an undertaker has been sent 
for who will soon be on hand to take charge, and 
things will bear a different appearance in the 
library. 

The country coroner was a doctor, and he had 
been deeply impressed with the grave nature of 
the case to which he had been called — at least 
so I have understood from a few words dropped 
by the detective officer. 

It is no light ^ *ng when a man as well known 
as Luther Cartaret is found murdered in his own 


112 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


library, and the whole country is apt to ring with 
the story. 

This publicity is what always makes such a 
tragedy harder to bear by the relatives of the de- 
ceased — their family secrets are laid bare, their 
peculiarities discussed, sacred things made merry 
over, and all privacy destroyed. 

I asked Uncle Jethro about Tom, and learned 
that he had spent most of the time beside his 
wife. She was much better now, and he had 
gone out somewhere for a walk. 

It seems as though the coast is clear for me, 
and I cannot but improve the opportunity to look 
through the house. 

Smithers has been through it, looking for evi- 
dence to be used against the inmates, and I 
don’t see why I should be debarred from the 
same privilege when I am working in the interest 
of the Cartaret family. 

I have been in the second stor)^ when visiting 
Tom before — indeed, there is a small room which 
he always called mine. 

Above is still another floor — more of an attic 
than anything else — and here I fancy I may find 
something to interest me. 

All is as quiet as death itself about the house, 
and making sure of this point, I head in the di- 
rection of the attic staircase. The door at the 
foot of this can be locked, but I do not find it in 


MR, SMITHERS FINDS HIMSELF LEFT 


113 


that condition, and have no trouble in mounting 
to the top. 

Here I find several rooms. All are connected 
and open save one, which seems to be a sort of 
store-room, wherein are kept the house supplies. 

There is no one about, and yet evidence is not 
lacking to show that these rooms have of late 
been occupied. There may have been some com- 
pany at Maplehurst, but this would be a queer 
place to put them, unless it happened to be some 
country cousin who would not know the differ- 
ence. 

Looking out of a small window, I could see the 
stable — Uncle Jethro is at work with his horses. 
Perhaps this was the window the detective was 
looking from when he saw me conversing with 
the coachman. 

I wonder what he thought of the place, or 
whether he bothered his head about it at all. 

One thing I notice — that each window, small as 
it is, has a stout oaken bar nailed across the 
inside. Perhaps they are very much afraid lest 
burglars might get in that way — there may have 
been a possible chance for them to gain the roof 
of the house, and once this is done, a bold swing 
on the part of the thief would suffice to give him 
a grip on the window. 

There seems to be nothing for me up here, and 
I conclude to go down again. While passing to- 
The Car tar et Affair 8 


14 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


ward the stairs I come across a shoe that attracts 
my attention. With a tape-line I measure it, and 
then compare the result with some figures I 
already have in my note-book. The result sur- 
prises me. 

“Humph! a mere coincidence. I will go down- 
stairs again. Perhaps a little talk with old 
Jethro might throw further light on the matter. 
There may be arguments by means of which I 
can convince him that confession is good for the 
soul,” I mutter. 

True, old Jethro is dead-set in his ways, and 
as stubborn as a mule; but there is, as a last re- 
source, one argument I can bring to bear that will 
be apt to fetch him. 

Suppose I give him to understand that all the 
circumstances point to Tom as the guilty party; 
his fears for the young master whom he loves 
will certainly cause him to speak. 

There is good reason for saying this, too, since 
Tom himself has confessed the deed in order to 
screen one he believes guilty. 

Thus, if I can only get the negro to tell what 
he knows, I will be able to settle the matter. 

It certainly looks gloomy enough as it rests 
now, with the evidence all pointing toward Tom 
Cartaret’s wife, and Tom himself vehemently 
declaring himself responsible for the deed. 

Thus reflecting on the vagaries of human life, 


MR. SMITHERS FINDS HIMSELF LEFT 


115 

I am walking quietly down the hall on the sec- 
ond floor toward the stairs, when my attention 
is arrested. From one of the rooms comes a 
white figure. The face is pale as death, and I 
hardly recognize Tom’s wife in the wretched- 
looking lady approaching. 

She has not seen me as yet, and I shrink back, 
hoping she will go by; but I hear her utter a 
little cry, and know I am discovered. ' 

Then she glides up to me, her hands held out, 
a look of mute entreaty on her face. 

“You are Tom’s friend, Mr. Peters?” she says. 

“And very glad to meet you, Mrs. Cartaret, but 
so sorry it is under such peculiar circumstances. ” 

She shudders; poor thing ! I am infinitely pained 
to see how this tragedy has affected her. No 
living soul could act that part. She is horrified 
at something — as I told Smithers, either because 
she has discovered the work of her sleeping 
hours, or else suspects Tom of being guilty. 

I can feel her eyes upon my face; they seem to 
burn me with their gaze. 

“You have known Tom man vears?” she says. 

“Yes; since we were boys at college,” I reply, 
fortifying myself for what is to come. 

“Did you ever know him to do a mean act?” 

“Never!” and my soul speaks then. 

“Did you believe him to be hasty and quick- 
tempered?” 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


1 16 

“Yes, on a number of occasions,” I reply; for 
the truth must be told though the heavens fall. 

She stifles a groan at this; no doubt it is a 
blow against her hopes. 

Still those star-like eyes are fastened on my 
face as she searches for a ray of light, and I 
know what is coming. 

“Mr. Peters, will you answer a question?” 

“To you — yes Mrs. Cartaret.” 

“Do you believe Tom guilty of this awful 
crime?” she almost whispers, as though afraid 
to hear the sound of her own voice. 

It is said, and somehow a wild feeling of ex- 
ultation passes over me — if she be guilty, she has 
not yet realized the truth. I hope that she is as 
innocent as she believes herself. 

“On my honor, I assure you I do not,” is the 
steady reply I make. 

Her face lights up, almost glorified. 

“God bless you for those words, Mr. Peters! 
My doubts and fears were killing me. Your 
blessed, comforting words give me new life;” and 
before I can prevent her, the lovely creature has 
snatched one of my hands and kissed it in grati- 
tude, vanishing within the room, and leaving me 
battling with conflicting emotions of joy and 
fear. 


CHAPT XIII 


A FRIEND IN NEED 

My courage grows apace. 

After this rather singu ar interview with Tor.' ‘ 3 
wife, I endeavor to analyze the case as it now 
stands, and my success gives me new hopes for 
the future. 

A man as suspicious as Smithers, always ex- 
pecting the worst of people, might have thought 
that she was playing a part. The idea enters 
my mind also, but I banish it utterly. 

Remembering her face and manner, I am ready 
to swear to one thing: if Tom’s wife has done 
this awful deed, the consciousness of her guilt has 
not yet dawned upon her mind — all her fears are 
for her husband. 

I may be mistaken, but am ready to lay much 
upon this line of reasoning. Then, if it be true, 
as Smithers has declared, what a shock is in 
store for the poor creature. It must surely turn 
her brain to have that man arrest her for the 
murder of Luther Cartaret, and point to the tell- 
tale stain on her dress as evidence of her truth. 
Heaven help Tom Cartaret’s wife when it comes 
to that point! 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


118 

First of all, I desire to find Tom, and have a 
little chat with him. It is my desire to know 
whether he has ever heard of his wife walking 
in her sleep. Her actions on that night seem to 
me to have been the result of some such peculiar 
fit as somnambulism. 

Peeping into the rooms below, I do not see 
him. Voices in the library attract me, and there 
I find Smithers talking to a couple of men whom 
I understand to be the undertaker and his assistant. 

Then Tom has not yet come in. 

I pass out, and stroll along the walk. It is one 
of the early November days, and as Jack Frost 
came late this year, vegetation is just in its 
glory; but to many the crimson is a sad sign — 
they think it indicative of coming death and 
winter, just as the consumptive’s cheeks show the 
scarlet flag when the dread disease has ' reached 
the last turn, and the race for the home stake 
begins. To me it never brings such thoughts, 
for my blood is that of a sportsman; the bracing 
air is life-giving after the heat of summer, and 
the scenery — well, every year I look upon it, I 
think it worth while living through a summer to 
be greeted by such a spectacle. 

They tell us that the man who has no music 
in his soul is fit for. treason, stratagem, and spoils; 
but what can you think of one who views such 
a gorgeous scene as Nature in her dress of crim- 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


119 

son and gold, unmoved? Surely there is some- 
thing dwarfed in that being. 

Sure enough, as I stroll about, I discover the 
object of my thoughts wandering along a path 
not far from the wall separating the Cartaret 
estate from the great cemetery. 

The sight of that wall causes me to remember 
the foot-prints I followed, and I determine to 
do more toward looking into that mystery after 
I have done with Tom. 

He does not notice my approach, for his head 
is bent low upon his chest, as though the weight 
of his sorrow presses heavily upon him. I would 
give a good deal if it were my privilege to utter 
magic words that would give him new life — it 
would be the happiest moment of my life if such 
a thing could be; but I must have patience — the 
time has not yet come. 

As Tom draws near, I stand and wait for him 
to reach me, which he soon does, and even then, 
failing to notice my presence, is about to pass by, 
when I clap my hand upon his shoulder. 

"Tom, old boy, cheer up!" 

He starts at my words, and looks suddenly into 
my face. Swift emotions chase each other over 
his countenance — alarm, hope, despair, one after 
another are seen. 

"Ah! it^s you, John. Where have you 
been? " 


120 


THE CARTy^RET AFFAIR 


“To the city; some business came up that had 
to be done, and I went to finish it.’’ 

“Did you see him?’’ 

“Whom? ’’ 

“Philip Gautier.” 

I see there is no way of getting out of it — he 
possibly suspects that the nature of my mission 
is connected with that man, and I must tell him 
what I have done. To do that, I will have to 
cause him pain, for I must refer to the fact that 
Smithers believes his wife guilty. Still, by the 
aid of a little strategy, I may be able to tide over 
this difficulty. 

“Yes, I have seen him, Tom,” I reply. 

His face lights up. 

“Did you give him the thrashing he deserved 
— what I would have done for him?” 

I shake my head. 

“Much as I would have liked it, that would 
have been folly. The result must have been dis- 
astrous for your family name.” 

“Then, why did you seek him, John?” 

“First, to make sure that he and Jules Garri- 
brant were one and the same person. I proved 
that to him before his very eyes, and he con- 
fessed. ” 

“The villain! ” breathes Tom. 

“Yes, he is a rascal, if ever such existed. My 
idea was simply this: he would be called upon. 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


I2I 


in the event of a trial, to testify, and such a 
thing would give him the chance he desired to 
work you and yours a bad turn. I determined he 
should not have this satisfaction, so I bundled 
him out of the country, bag and baggage." 

"What?" 

"He is now on the steamer La Bourgogne, bound 
down New York harbor past Sandy Hook, and 
headed for Havre, France.” 

"John, you’re a conjurer! By what magic did 
you induce him to take this sudden sea voyage?" 

"The magic of your name." 

"Eh?" 

"I simply told him that you had gone crazy 
over the effect of that letter, and were bound for 
the city to have his life. Then I told how I had 
by trickery delayed you an hour on the way, at 
the end of which time a madman would be at his 
door seeking his life. He fears you as much as 
he hates you, and readily consented to leave the 
country at once. I imagine he has been engaged 
in some swindling business anyhow, and is anx- 
ious to get away. At any rate, he is gone, and a 
good riddance of bad rubbish." 

"John, you are a friend indeed! ” he says, 
warmly. 

"I wish to be more of one to you, Tom. It is 
my earnest desire to bring happiness home to 
you here again.” 


122 THE CARTARET' AFFAIR 

He passes his hand wearily over his fore- 
head. 

“Happiness! I never expect to know it again." 

“I trust it is not so bad as that. In the first 
place, Tom, you must know that I have entered 
into the detective business." 

At that he looks me in the face reproachfully. 

“You too, John?" 

“Stop. You don’t understand. I told Smithers 
I would set up an opposition bureau to him, and 
while he endeavored to prove a certain person 
guilty, I would be working to prove innocence.” 

At that he grasps my hand — how fierce his 
clutch is; but I return it warmly. 

“Now, Tom, between you and me let all be frank- 
ness. You are in a desperate condition of mind. 
I believe I can do you good. You need the sym- 
pathy and counsel of a friend. I know all your 
hopes and fears, my dear fellow. Lean on me, 
and you will feel better.” 

He sighs heavily. 

“I do feel better alread}^, to know I have such 
a friend in my time of trouble. God bless you, 
John Peters! " he says, brokenly. 

“Now, old comrade, we are where no hostile 
ears can overhear us; you must confide in me." 

He looks startled, and moves uneasily. 

“In the first place, your confession made no 
impression on me — I know you did not do that 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


123 


thing. Mr. Smithers overheard what you said, and 
scorned it as nonsense.” 

Tom’s head sinks again — in dejection, he real- 
izes that his desperate plan is a failure. Right 
or left, he knows not which way to turn, in order 
to find relief. 

‘‘Putting that aside, Tom, there is one who 
did believe in your guilt, though not now.” 

“Who is that?” 

‘‘Your wife !” 

Tom looks at me strangely. 

‘‘Do you mean that?” he asks. 

“I do.- She knew you had quarreled with your 
father, and the most natural conclusion that could 
be reached was that you had done this in the 
heat of anger. You remember her words when 
she came into the library and saw the body — her 
thoughts were of you. ” 

In great mental distress he clutches his temples, 
and looks at me with such an agonizing expres- 
sion that I pause to give him a chance to free 
his mind. 

‘‘John, if what you tell me is true — and I pray 
God you are not deceiving me — how can Madge 
be guilty?” he utters in a steady yet strained 
voice. 

This is my opportunity — the entering wedge 
has been sent into the heart of oak, and with 
quick blows I must drive it home. 


124 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


"There is only one way in which such a phe- 
nomenon can be explained, Tom.’’ 

"Then, let me hear it.’’ 

"If your wife is guilty — and I am far from con- 
vinced that she is — she may have done this deed 
without knowing it.’’ 

His face grows dark again. 

"John, is that your consolation? It mocks my 
misery. How could a living soul commit such a 
crime, and, as you insinuate, be ignorant of it? 
No, no! this is some chimera you are pursuing — 
a false light — a will-o’-the-wisp,’’ he groans. 

"Wait, and you may secure a crumb of comfort 
from what I have to say. Such a thing is possi- 
ble. People who are drunk or crazy have done 
things of which in their sane moments they have 
not the slightest recollection.’’ 

"That may be true, John; but my wife was 
neither drunk nor crazy last night. Such a theory 
will not hold good,’’ he replies, sadly. 

I am ready to put the question now, upon 
which so much depends. 

"Tom, has your wife ever told you — do you 
know from personal observation — that she is a 
somnambulist?” 

Although my voice is steady, and my manner 
nonchalant, I am in a cold sweat while awaiting 
his answer. He waits only a few seconds, but 
they seem hours to me. 


A FRIEND IN NEED 


125 


"Yes, I have known that,” he replies. 

My heart gives a bound. 

"Then, Tom, your wife was walking in her sleep 
last night!” I exclaim. 

"Strange,” he says, thoughtfully, "that I never 
noticed that before — it did not occur to me.” 

"But you can believe it?” 

"Yes, I know it is so, now. I remember that 
she passed along the hall and into her own 
room in a mechanical way, such as a sleep- 
walker possesses. Yes, it is true.” 

"Tom, were you aroused by a strange noise, too? ” 

"Yes; I could not place it at the time, but now” 
— with a shudder — "I know what it was. But 
you speak as though someone else heard it?” 

"Aunty Chloe. She arose, and looked out of 
the window. Then, hearing a sound in the hall, 
she saw your wife standing at the window and 
apparently looking out, the moonlight flooding 
her with its white beams. Before Chloe could 
speak, your wife turned and glided into her room. 
If you were near by, Chloe did rfot see you. ” 

"John, old fellow, bless you for your words of 
cheer! It will indeed be much, if we can know 
Madge is innocent in mind;” and he grasps my 
hand again in his feverish clutch. 

"My dear boy, that is the first point. I hope 
to be able to prove that your wife is as innocent 
as I am of this terrible crime,” I say, steadily. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE SPECTER AMONG THE TOMBS 

I am pleased to see what a change has taken 
place in Tom — the haggard look upon his face 
has been in a measure dissipated, and in its stead 
has come one of hope. 

He has something to live for now; and believ- 
ing it may help to arouse him, I relate the inci- 
dent of my accidental meeting with Madge — her 
looks and actions, with what she said. 

He drinks it all in eagerly, and, as I hoped, 
it seems to do him good. The man I look upon 
now is not the Tom of an hour back. 

“Is there anything I can do, John?” he asks, 
when I have finished. “You know I have more at 
stake in this game than any other living soul, 
and it would be such a pleasure to be able to do 
sjomething for her sake." 

I have not told him my vague plans, for I do 
not wish to arouse any hopes within him that may 
fail to have even a foundation. Still, there is 
something that has occurred to me. 

“Perhaps you can do me a favor. I wish to 
know the truth as soon as possible. When I met 
126 


THE SPECTER 


127 


your wife, just now, I saw she had changed her 
dress — she no longer wore the creamy one in 
which she was garbed when she entered the 
library and swooned, but a dead-white robe. Can 
you secure the skirt of that creamy dress without 
her knowledge?” 

“Tell me your motive. I can guess — but — ” 

‘‘Plainly, Tom, Smithers lays great stress upon 
a stain near the hem of that dress — it looks like 
a dark splash of dried blood.” 

He shudders. 

‘‘And you?” 

‘‘I desire to take it to a chemist friend of 
mine, who will, for my sake, make an analysis, 
and give me a written opinion of the material 
causing the stain.” 

Tom seems to reflect a moment. 

‘‘I will do it. In half an hour the skirt will be 
in your possession. It is a light, fleecy affair, 
and weighs but little. Madge detests dark colors, 
and all of her dresses have been in light shades; 
but now, poor girl, she must dress in black.” 

‘‘Then, in half an hour or so, I will meet you 
here, Tom." 

‘‘Very good.” 

He leaves me a different man from .the one I 
met walking about the grounds. There is a 
spring to his walk, and his head is carried 
erect once more. It gives me pleasure to see 


128 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


him looking like the Tom of yore, and I more 
than ever resolve to let no stone remain unturned 
in order to accomplish the object I have before 
me. 

When he has gone from sight, I walk in the 
direction of the door or gate in the wall. 

No one is in sight. The sun has dropped quite 
a distance down the western sky, and now hangs 
above the hills like a ball of fire suspended in 
space, his cheering warmth feeling very comfort- 
able while the cool north breeze fans one’s 
cheeks. 

Another minute, and I am looking upon the 
silent city of the dead. 

Standing there, my thoughts very naturally 
become somewhat depressed ; no one can find him- 
self alone in a grave-yard and feel otherwise — 
strange thoughts intrude themselves on the mind, 
and we see visions, as it were. 

I thrust such thoughts away, for I have busi- 
ness ahead. If the party who passed through 
this door went into the cemetery, perhaps I can 
find a trace of him there. 

So I look around me, examining the ground. 
It is not hard, for a rain has recently fallen, and 
the sun has not been strong enough to bake the 
earth, so I have an idea I may find a continua- 
tion of the trail. 

At this hour no one seems to be in the cem- 


THE SPECTER 


129 


etery — at least the quarter where I find myself 
appears to be quite deserted. 

There are old graves here, tombs and dilapi- 
dated stones dating back a century and more. 
Few people care to see these, so that nearly all 
the parties visiting the cemetery wander through 
the beautiful new portion, and avoid the cold- 
looking region where bodies were buried as far 
back as 1700. 

I chance to know that old Luther Cartaret was 
very fond of wandering in this place, which was 
the reason he had caused the door to be made 
in the wall. 

His first wife, Tom^s mother, lies buried here, 
and many times on moonlight nights the old 
poet was wont to walk to her grave, and there 
keep a lonely vigil while he communed with 
nature and drew inspiration from the stars. More 
than one of his poems, which I had read, Tom 
told me, had been composed at his wife^s grave. 

There is quite a beaten path leading from the 
door into the heart of the patch of weeping 
willows, and seeing no isolated foot-prints that 
correspond with the one I have examined so 
closely within the grounds, I proceed along this 
narrow trail. 

Of course, I know where it will lead me, and 
am not at all surprised when, after passing under 
the shadow of the willows, and among a num- 

The Cartaret Affair 9 


130 


THE CHRTHRET AFFAIR 


ber of dilapidated tombs, I find myself looking 
upon a square patch of ground where the grass 
has been kept cut and flowers planted, which, of 
course, the frost has nipped. 

A granite stone is erected there, and standing 
before it, I read the inscription: 

“Sacred to the memory of 

J EANETTE, 

Beloved wife of Luther Cartaret, who departed 
this life June 23d, 186 — , aged 27 years 
4 months and 5 days. 

Beyond the gates she waits for me." 

That is Tom’s mother. He has no recollection 
of her, being a small child when she was taken 
to this her last resting-place. 

Only one other stone is in the lot; it is a small 
one, and does not appear to mark a grave, but 
simply stands as a remembrance. 

This is often done; sailors buried at sea have a 
slab erected “in memory of," to show that they 
are not forgotten. 

To my surprise, as I bend forward, I notice 
that some vandal hand has been rude enough to 
mar the inscription — it looks as though a sharp- 
pointed stone had been used to pound the tablet, 
and only with exceeding difficulty am I able to 
decipher what little it contains: 

RACHEL BABETTE. 

1881. 


THE SPECTER 


That is all, but I grasp the whole; to me it is 
easy to read between the lines. 

I remember the name. Rachel was Luther Car- 
taret’s second wife — she who had so basely left 
him to run away with a handsome rascal, who, 
of course, cast her adrift on the world. 

When he received news of her death, from 
some source, years later, Luther had caused this 
slab to be placed here. Perhaps he had loved 
her truly, and his heart may have been sorely 
wounded by her action. After her death the bit- 
terness left him, and he had erected this stone 
to show that he forgave. 

Standing here, or seated near by, the old man 
must have had many strange thoughts as he com- 
pared the qualities of the two women to whom 
he had given his love and name. 

1 have knelt down, the better to see the words 
upon the battered slab, and remain in that posi- 
tion while allowing my thoughts free play. 

Soon Luther Cartaret will be placed beside his 
Jean. I notice that the other stone is in a corner 
of the lot, removed from the shaft that marks 
his first wife’s grave, and have no doubt but 
that this has been done with a purpose in 
view. 

While thus engaged with my thoughts, I hear 
a rustling in the bushes near by, and look up, 
wondering if it can be a rabbit that my coming 


132 


THE CART/1RET AFFAIR 


has disturbed, or a gray squirrel hunting among 
the fallen leaves for nuts. 

A movement catches my eye, and I see some- 
thing that holds my gaze riveted in a horrified 
manner. I seem under a spell, and though I 
would give much to move, my limbs act as if 
suddenly held in a vise-like grip. 

What is it I see? Only a face amid the dense 
vegetation about a neighboring tumble-down tomb; 
but that face surely must belong to the spirits 
that haunt this old grave-yard — it cannot be human. 

In looks it is demoniacal, and the long, tangled 
gray hair that is matted around tells me it 
belongs to a woman. That she is as mad as a 
March hare is evident at a glance — she glowers 
at me as though tempted to leap forward and 
attack me where I crouch. 

I have never believed myself a coward; but the 
condition of things is such that I would just as 
soon see a tiger looking at me from those bushes 
as this awful apparition. 

Undoubtedly there must be some asylum in 
the neighborhood, and one of its inmates has 
secured her freedom. I believe it is customary 
for such poor, demented creatures to seek safety 
in a grave-yard — there is something about the 
place that satisfies their desire for loneliness; 
and, besides, an asylum is often given by some 
old tomb or sepulcher. 



f 

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I SEE SOMETHING THAT HOLDS MY GAZE RIVITED IN A 
HORRIFIED MANNER.— Page 132. 


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THE SPECTER 


133 


I realize that under such conditions a bold front 
generally cows a deranged person, so I at last 
succeed in gaining my feet and walking toward 
the wild-looking creature. 

She gives a cry; I can see her throw aloft her 
arms, the elfin locks are shaken, and then a 
blank space remains where the head has been. 

I continue to advance, and presently reach the 
spot where she has been. There lies the old tomb, 
its door dilapidated; and a long shaft of light 
from the western sun pierces its interior, reveal- 
ing it all to my gaze. 

There is no sign of the mad creature about, 
though I have no doubt she has been in this 
very sepulcher perhaps for days. 

The gloom and chill of the place discounte- 
nance any further observations on my part, and 
I am just about to turn away, when, near the 
plot of the Cartarets, close by the defaced slab, 
I see a plain foot-print in the earth. 

It looks familiar — I bend down and examine it, 
and satisfied at last, take out my tape-line and 
measure it. The result is, th^t I believe the man 
whom Uncle Jethro saw about the grounds, and 
whose foot-print I followed toward the door in 
the wall, has been here beside the grave of Tom’s 
mother. 

Just then this does not strike me as more 
than ordinarily singular; later on, the true sig- 


134 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


nificance comes home, and I see things through 
a pair of inspired glasses. 

I turn away with a sigh for the old man who 
will soon be laid away at rest under this green 
turf, undisturbed for many a year, but my thoughts 
are principally for the two Cartarets left behind 
— Tom and his sweet wife — upon whom has 
fallen this dark shadow. 

When I reach the door in the wall I make 
sure to fasten it as well as I can, but there is 
no means of locking it, which fact I deplore, 
remembering the fearful-looking creature I have 
seen while among the tombs. Perhaps I had 
better w^arn Uncle Jethro, so that he can take a 
hammer and a nail and secure the door tempo- 
rarily. With this idea in my mind, I walk in 
the direction of the stables. 

Uncle Jethro is sure to be there, and if the 
opportunity is fitting, I may ask him a few other 
questions regarding certain things. I have not 
changed my mind about the old fellow, to any 
great extent, and believe now, just as before, 
that, did he choose to talk, he could throw much 
light on this dark mystery. 

Before long I mean to put my plan into exe- 
cution, and by a method of compulsion force the 
old man to reveal all he does know, whether 
that be little or much — against Tom’s wife, or 
in her favor. The time has not yet come, however. 
Patience, John Peters. 


CHAPTER XV 


UNCLE JETHRO ON THE STAND 

Yes, there is my old friend Jethro, busily en- 
gaged in shining up the silver bits on the har- 
ness. Evidently he finds plenty to keep him 
busy, while he mourns in his heart for the old 
master who is being laid out in the library by 
the undertaker and his assistant. 

He sees me coming, but does not greet me with 
his usual good-natured grin. Uncle Jethro is 
changed. He does not seem to be the same jolly 
fellow who used to go with Tom and me upon 
some of our hunting or fishing trips, to cook, 
take care of camp, and look after us generally. 
In fact, I am prone to believe he has a sort of 
fear of me now — my coming, perhapsj has, in his 
mind, brought bad luck to the house of Cartaret, 
or it may be he has some other reason for his 
uneasiness. 

I remember thaUwhen last I saw him I gave 
the old man quite a dressing, and elicited facts 
which he fain would have concealed. He may 
believe I am about to continue the cross-ques- 
tioning, and in this he is right. 

135 


136 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


“Ah! Uncle, busy as usual,” I remark, taking: 
a seat upon an averturned horse-bucket near by. 

“Yes, sah; I’se got plenty to do, an’ does it wid 
a cheerful spirit. Reckon I’ll keep so till Ga- 
briel sounds his trumpet, and old Jeth he laid 
out like de marse )onder. ” 

“I hope you don’t expect to meet such a vio- 
lent death? ’ 

“Gorry, no! Marse John. I hope ter die peace- 
fully, like a Christian, in my bed. An’ I ain’t 
afraid ter go, neither, wen de time comes. My 
ole ’ooman Dinah waitin’ foah me whar de wick- 
ed cease from trubblin’ an’ de weary am at rest.” 

“Uncle, is there an insane asylum anywhere 
near this place?” • 

“A what, honey?” 

“A mad-house. Uncle.” 

The old man stops his rubbing, and a look of 
deep uneasiness shows upon his black face. 

“What for you ask dat ob me, Marse John?” he 
queries, with a cunning glance, as though he 
would read the answer in my face. 

“I have a reason. You said you hoped you 
would not die a violent death, and I remembered 
something that made such a thing possible: one 
of the inmates of the mad-house has escaped. 
Uncle.” 

‘"De Lor’ help us! ” 

“I saw her in the grave-yard-— a fearful creature 


UNCLE JETHRO ON THE STAND 137 

with wild, flowing gray hair, and eyes that burned 
like coals of fire. She fled from me.” 

“Twar a woman, den, Marse John?” 

“Yes ; and the most terrible spectacle I have 
ever seen; it makes me shudder to even think 
of her.” 

“An’ I tink I see her afore me all de time.” 

“Uncle, you have met her, then?" I ask, sur- 
prised. He drops his head, and works on the sil- 
ver plate with renewed energy. 

“Yas; I seed her in de grave-yard de oder 
day. I was cuttin’ de grass around de graves in 
de plot for de last time dis year, nebber dreamin’ 
how soon we’d be puttin’ de good ole marse at 
rest dar, wen I seed her. She runned away from 
me, too; but I was done skeered half to def fust.” 

I am under the solemn conviction that the old 
fellow is constructing this story as he goes along, 
but fail to see his motive, and hence allow the 
matter to rest. 

“If I were you. Uncle, I would take a hammer 
and nails and fasten up that door.” 

“Dey’ll wanter use it to-morrow if dey has de 
funeral. De marse allers said he meant to be 
carried trough dat gate wen his time come, an’ I 
reckon dat am now.” 

“Well, you could nail it temporarily, and draw 
th& nails to-morrow. That fearful creature might 
take a notion to come in here — if she has not 


138 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


done so before now,” I add, as a sudden thought 
flashes into my brain with the startling effect of 
an electric flash. 

I cannot stop to analyze it now — that will 
come later, when 1 have more time; but it puts 
an idea into my head which must gradually work 
much as yeast does, until the whole mass becomes 
leavened. 

‘‘Pll do it, Marsejohn. Can’t ’ford to hab any 
more mischief done yer, no how; ” and he shakes 
his head sadly, as he glances in the direction of 
the house. 

“For one, I wouldn’t like to live in the neigh- 
borhood of an asylum — seems to me it must be 
dangerous at times. Have you ever known a 
lunatic to escape before?” 

"A what, Marse John?” 

"Lunatic — crazy person, like this creature.” 

‘I beliebe dar was one dat got away and made 
a rumpus in de wicinity; but dat war a great 
while ago — years an’ years.” 

"Your memory is good. Uncle?’ 

“Remarkably, sah. ” 

“Was that other person a female, too?” 

“ ’Twar, Marse John.” 

“They seem to be keener than the men.” 

“Dey’s sharper dan de debble; dar ain’t a soul 
on yarth dat kin ekal ’em. I’d sooner trust my- 


UNCLE JETHRO ON THE STAND 


139 


self in a cage wif tigers dan in de hands ob sech 
critters,” he asserts positively. 

‘‘Why, Uncle Jethro, one would think, from 
what you say, that you had had experience with 
crazy people,” I cannot help remarking. 

The old fellow moves uneasily, looks at me 
kind of appealingly, and then replies: 

"Well, I has had a little in my time, Marse 
John — I knows wat dey is, anyhow, an^ what cun- 
nin’ debbles dey are. I don’t hanker arter any 
furder experience, neither," with a shake of the 
head that would have been ludicrous at another 
time. 

"Uncle, you have been with Mr. Cartaret a 
long time — he would have trusted you with nearly 
anything he had, I presume?” 

This quite tickles the old man. It is not a 
hard task to get what you want out of him, after 
all — a little diplomacy, and the thing is accom- 
plished. 

"Dat am a fack; de ole marse him tink I no 
fool. He nebber would a been afraid to put his 
pocket-book in my hand and tell me to buy what- 
ebber war needed for de house — ebbery penny be 
’counted for, shuah. ” 

"I suppose the old gentleman took you into his 
secrets, too. Uncle?” 

His appearance at that instant causes me to 
think of a turtle drawing in its head at the ap- 


140 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


proach of danger. I could not express my iiiean 
ing better than by such a simile. 

“Secrets! De ole marse he no great hand foah 
secrets; He fond ob open-handed ways — an’ 
young marse like him, too.” 

“Nevertheless, I’ll wager Luther Cartaret had 
at least one secret from the world — everyone 
does. There was that affair . of his second wife — 
everybody don’t know the truth of that. ” 

“No, dey don’t, I ’spect.” 

“What do the people here believe?" 

“You mean de ole people wat knowed her? 
Dey beliebe she started to go to her mudder, who 
was sick across de big sea, adn dat de vessel war 
lost, and Missy Rachel wid her, foah she war 
nebber heard ob agin.” 

“Uncle, did you see her die?” 

“No, sah.” 

“Then, how do you know she is dead?” 

“Marse tell me,” doggedly. 

“Did he say how she died?” 

“I done tole you once, Marse John, dat we 
heered dat she jump in de ribber arter dat Cap’n 
Lancewood leab her, an’ war drowned. De ole 
marse he go on to see de body. ” 

“It is not buried yonder?” pointing in the di- 
rection of the cemetery. 

“Oh, no — dat nebber do! de ole marse know 


UNCLE JETHRO ON THE STAND 


141 

too much foah dat. How kin he say she drown 
on de sea, if he berry her dar?" 

"Then, he knew where she was buried?" 

"I ’spect so, Marse John, seein’ dat he went 
away to hab it done secret-like.” 

"Do you know where it was she was drowned?” 

"Not ’zactly; somewhar in York State — seems 
to me ’twas like Watson’s Den.” 

"Ah! yes — Watkin’s Glen; a fitting place for 
a suicide, according to my .notion. ” 

Uncle looks a trifle alarmed, I think; he acts 
much like a crab retreating backward, now. 

"Don’t know, Marse John — sounds alike dat 
ar, but might be mistaken. Anyhow, she was 
drowned, an’ marse allers say so,” stubbornly. 

"You know the man who came here to look up 
this affair. Uncle?” I continue. 

"Yas, de man wid de black face — I think he got 
Spanish blood in him, or else Indian.” 

"Just as like that last, which would account for 
his loving to track people down.” 

"Am dat wat he do, Marse John?” 

"It is his business — a detective. Suppose, for 
instance, .he thought circumstances pointed to 
you as the guilty party — the one who had crept 
into the library and used that deadly knife — he 
would begin to hunt around to find out, first, the 
motive for th-e deed, and then how it was done.” 

"I ’clar to goodness, you skeer me,” he mutters 


142 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


uneasily, looking around as though he half ex- 
pects to see the dreaded detective near by, wait- 
ing to clap his hand upon his shoulder. 

Of course no such apparition meets his gaze; 
and somewhat reassured, he listens again. It is 
my purpose to alarm the old man all I can, and 
thus have him ripe for my coup de grace 
I want to play that last stroke. 

“Looking for a motive, he might possibly find 
that at some time the old master had struck you 
in anger, and that you had sworn revenge; or he 
might learn that you had an itching palm for 
money, and Luther Cartaret had a large sum with 
him that night. In short. Uncle, any one of a 
dozen things might be discovered that would 
give you away if you were guilty; and when he 
had satisfied himself that you were guilty, he 
would begin to cast around him for the means 
employed. Thus, step by step he would trace 
your actions, until the whole story was laid 
bare, after which he would arrest you, clap a 
pair of irons about your wrists, and take you away 
to jail, after which you would be tried, found 
guilty on the evidence he brought forward, and 
sentenced to be hung by the neck before 
spring." 

Poor old uncle’s face is a study: the perspira- 
tion stands in beads upon his brow under the 
gray wool; but it is inward emotion, mental 


UNCLE JETHRO ON THE STAND 


H3 


agony, that brings this out, and not the exertion 
he is displaying in rubbing up the harness. 

His eyes, too, are round as silver dollars, and 
show the whites. Altogether, Jethro is alarmed, 
and he shows it in his looks. 

“Honey, you don’t tink dat man look my way, 
do you?’’ he asks, huskily. 

“He hasn’t been to talk with you yet. Uncle?’’ 

“No, sah. ’’ 

“Then, as yet he doesn’t suspect you; but he is 
bound to put this crime on someone, and if he 
fails to get the guilty party, he may turn to you; 
there’s no telling.” 

“Den he make a big mistake. I don’t know 
nuffin’ about de matter, cn’ydat I lose de best ole 
marse wat ebber lib,” he says, sullenly. 

I think I will put him to the test now by tell- 
ing how Tom is in the toils; surely he cannot 
hold his secret longer when he hears that. 

“Uncle, I’ve got something — ” I begin, when I 
see him look behind me in alarm. 

“Gorry! ” he mutters, with a groan, “I spect your 
words am gwine to be a prophecy, Marse John, 
for hyar comes dat detection ossifer now, an’ I 
kin feel de terror ob de law away off hyar.” 

That settles it for the present. I will defer my 
coup de grace for some time in the near future, 
and, to deceive Smithers, ask old uncle some 
ordinary question, which he answers readily. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE CHEMIST 

Smithers comes up. 

He looks at me with a twinkle in his eye, as 
though amused at the manner in which I am 
working my case. 

No doubt he believes old uncle is ready to 
make up a yarn that will astonish me, and give 
me reason to think I am on the right trail. 

“How are you getting on, Mr. Peters?” he 
asks, in a quizzical tone. 

I am trembling for fear lest he may turn his 
heavy guns upon Jethro, and force his secret out 
before my very eyes, but hope he will have 
too much respect for me to do that. This is my 
game, and by rights he has no business med- 
dling with it. 

“Not as well as I could wish, sir; I find my- 
self in something of a tangle already," I reply. 

“Ah! when you want the tough knots taken 
out, my dear fellow, come to me,” he says, with 
the most exasperating condescension. 

At the same time he begins moving off — a fact 
I hail with sincere pleasure. 

144 


THE CHEMIST 


145 


"I will do so if they get too intricate for my 
comprehension,” I reply. 

Then he suddenly stops and turns. 

"Are you thinking of going into the city again, 
Mr. Peters?” he asks. 

I cannot keep from starting; it seems to me 
he must know my secret, for it was my intention 
to make for New York as soon as Tom placed 
the small package in my hands. 

'T might run in this evenintg. Is there any- 
thing I can do for you, sir?” 

“Yes; mail this letter. It would not leave 
here until morning, and perhaps not then. I 
have a very poor opinion of these country post- 
offices.” 

“I will put it in with pleasure.” 

“No more Philip Gautier visits, my friend?” 
with something of a suspicious glance. 

“Oh, no! He’s many miles out upon the 
ocean by this time.” 

Then he walks off, to turn again and call out; 

“Coming back to-night, Peters?” 

“Yes, if the time-table admits of it, and I can 
bribe Uncle Jethro to wait for me at the station.” 

With that he leaves me in peace. 

My mind is on the work ahead. As I place the 
letter in my pocket, I see it is directed to the 
chief of police. No doubt it contains the record 
of the day’s work, written up by Smithers, and I 
The Car tar et Affair 10 


146 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


shrug my shoulders as I think how heavily his 
report must bear upon Tom Cartaret’s wife. 

Then my mind goes back to the subject which I 
was about to introduce when the coming of the 
detective bothered me. Can I get the old man 
to confess the truth? 

At any rate, I believe I can try, and there will 
be no harm in the effort, as I am resolved to 
keep within bounds, and only speak concerning 
what might be the case. 

If he believes that his dearly beloved young 
master is in peril of his life, Jethro will feel 
inclined to tell all he knows; that is my esti- 
mate of his character, and, as I have said before, 
I rather pride myself in my ability to read faces. 

Again am I interrupted. Just as I begin to 
train my batteries on the darky, and when I am 
certain that I have at least aroused his curiosity, 
if not his fears, I hear a firm tread near by, and 
turning, see someone coming. It is Tom him- 
self. In his hand he carries a small package, 
and I can guess what it contains: he has se- 
cured the skirt, and is seeking me. Well, that 
settles it — for the present I will have to defer 
my plan of operations. 

“I was looking for you, John. Uncle, hitch 
up Dexter in the dog-cart, and take Mr. Peters 
to the station; you have just time to make it.” 

“Yes, sah; ” and without another word, Uncle 


THE CHEMIST 


147 


Jethro bundles his harness into the big barn and 
proceeds to obey orders. 

“You can just catch the 5; 50 express, John. 
That will land you in the city in time for supper, 
after which you can see your chemist friend, and 
come out again. There is a train every hour up 
to midnight — here is a time-table. You will 
pardon my rushing you like this, but I tell you I 
cannot sleep until I know the worst, and the 
sooner it is over the better. ’’ 

“My dear fellow, this just suits me; I like to 
do things on the jump. Nothing could be bet- 
ter. 1 will return to-night, unless something 
quite out of the common run detains me. Could 
I wire you if it were necessary?’’ 

“Yes. They don’t deliver messages at night 
here as a general rule, but you can see the opera- 
tor, and let him know that uncle will be there; 
he will hand him the telegram.’’ 

“Good! ril do it. You understand that Pm 
only preparing for emergencies, Tom. I expect 
to be on deck here between nine and ten to-night.’’ 

“Heaven grant that success attend you, John!. 
I shall not have you out of my mind.’’ 

“Pll do all I can.’’ 

“I know it. A man never had a better friend 
than I have in you, John Peters,’’ 

“Nonsense, Tom. This is really in my line 
of business. You know we were like brothers. 


148 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


Then, again, there is a satisfaction to me in the 
mere hope and anticipation of causing Smithers 
humiliation. Something about the man repels 
me — he is so confident of succeeding,” 

‘T would give all I own, or ever expect to 
own, if you could beat him at his game; but my 
hopes are not very strong, John. It makes me 
shudder when I think of the awful accumulation 
of evidence against Madge.” 

Of course, I try to cheer him up, and in a 
measure succeed; but my assurances are only 
half-hearted ones, for I cannot see very great 
brightness ahead myself, so heavy are the clouds. 
Then uncle comes into view with the dog cart, 
and I jump in. 

A grasp of the hand, a few earnest words, 
and I am off for the 5; 50. 

Dexter makes good time, and as we arrive a 
few minutes ahead of the schedule, I go in to 
speak to the telegraph operator about a possible 
message, telling him that uncle will be on hand 
from nine up to midnight to take it, and leav- 
ing a dollar bill to pay him for sitting up. 

All is now arranged. As the train draws up 
I step aboard, and am whirled away from Clif- 
ton, bound once more for the great city. 

Evening has already set in, and the lamps are 
lighted on the train. I lie back, and shape my 
plan of actions, consulf the time-table, and ar- 


THE CHEMIST 


149 


range things generally. It is easy to do this, 
though just as likely as not some unexpected 
hitch may occur in the programme to throw 
things crooked. When I review the case, and 
look at it from all points of the compass, I see 
only one little gleam of hope, and that is really 
so small that I hardly dare expect much from 
it; but it is strange how a drowning man will 
clutch at a straw. 

At last we arrive, and cross the river on the 
ferry. One of my first moves is to deposit the 
detective^ s letter in the post-office, going out of 
my way a little to do it. Then I seek a restau- 
rant, and have a light supper. 

It is now a quarter past seven. If I find my 
friend the chemist in, everything will be lovely, 
and I can caunt on fortune as attending my case. 
Much depends on this, and I shall be anxious 
until I know. 

An idea has entered my head which I am de- 
sirous of carrying out, and in order to do it I 
must be back at the Cartaret manse before mid- 
night arrives. 

It is a clear night, and the moon will soon be 
climbing up the eastern heavens, dispensing 
with a bountiful hand her flood of silvery light. 
Beautiful weather, this, for November! How I 
long to be in the woods up in wild Pike county, 
gun in hand, looking for game. I can see the 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


150 

cheery camp-fire now, with Tom bending over it, 
while the owls awake the echoes of the woods, 
or perhaps the distant scream of a bob-cat thrills 
the nerves. 

My disappointment is keen. Tom will not be 
able to go with me as planned, and I will have 
to make a solitary pilgrimage this time. To 
one who loves good company this is pretty hard. 

Having finished my supper, I hie away to the 
office and rooms of my friend without loss of time.. 
He is in the employ of a large concern making food- 
products, such as baking-powder. Part of the 
time he is in their great building, where he has 
an office, but he also has some of his work to do 
at home, and hence I have no doubt will have 
all the materials for making a chemical examina- 
tion of the stain near by. 

I reach his house, and am just about to pass 
up the steps when the door opens. Naturally, I 
step aside to make way for the party coming 
out, and no sooner do I see who it is than I 
shrink into the darkest shadow. 

Smithers! 

It seems like the irony of fate to see him here, 
and I begin to feel that I have in some way 
been outwitted by the detective. 

How this could be done does not as yet enter 
into my head, but the sight of Smithers seems to 
prophesy evil. 


THE CHEMIST 


151 

It flashes into my mind that during one of our 
talks in the afternoon he asked me a simple 
question with reference to a good chemist — his 
words were put in such a way that I never once 
had a suspicion that he wanted to make use of 
the services of such a party at once. 

He comes down the steps, and walks rapidly 
away, probably making for the eight o’clock 
train, for I am sure he does not intend to leave 
Clifton even for a night. 

I wait until he has gone some distance, and 
then, mounting the steps, I ring. 

My curiosity is aroused — I wonder what brings 
Smithers here. Something connected with the 
case, I am sure, and yet it is hard to see what 
it can be, since I hold in my hand the dress that 
is stained. 

There is no need of bothering my brain much 
about it; I can soon discover all, if my friend 
is willing to speak, and I know the professor 
well enough to believe that he will yield to my 
entreaties. 

Perhaps the chance is about to be given me to 
once more secure a lead on the detective, and 
the thought makes me chuckle with pleasure. 

The door opens; a maid stands there. I ask 
for the professor, and hear that he has given 
orders that he cannot be seen again that night, 
as he has a difficult analysis to perform in con- 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


15^ 

nection with some great lawsuit in which his 
company has become engaged. 

Nothing daunted, I scribble a line on the back 
of my card, and send it in. As I expected, it 
proves the magic “open sesame,” for when the 
maid appears again she smiles and says: 

“The professor will see you, sir.” 

“In his office?” 

“Yes, sir; do ye know the way?” 

“I should think so.” 

Advancing along the hall, I reach a door, 
and without ceremony open it. Before me lies 
the professor’s “den” — and such a sight as it is! 
with hundreds of bottles, scales, retorts, and all 
manner of modern and ancient chemical imple- 
ments used in determining the ingredients in any 
compound. A curious business for a man to 
carry on, and yet one full of fascination. I have 
known Professor Jacks some years, and have long 
since been assured that he is alive only in his 
peculiar calling, wrapped up in it, so to speak. 
He would rather wrestle with a difficult problem 
in chemistry, and wring a victory out of it, than 
to hear the greatest singer alive. There is no 
accounting for tastes in this world of ours. He 
is always experimenting, too, and I have jokingly 
told him more than once that he ought to find a 
way to make pure gold out of the baser metals. 
Professor Jacks is, perhaps, what might be called 


THE CHEMIST 


153 


a "crank;” but he is an interesting man — I like 
him, and have spent many delightful hours in 
his company, watching his peculiar experi- 
ments. 


CHAPTER XVII 


ANOTHER POINT GAINED 

Professor Jacks advances to meet me, his hand 
extended. I know the clutch that awaits me, 
and adroitly manage to get the better hold, so I 
can give as good as I receive. 

He is a thin man, with a face badly scarred — 
the marks of certain dangerous experiments 
in the past, whereby he gained knowledge and 
almost lost his own life; but the small eyes have 
a power peculiarly their own — a quiet man, dis- 
daining all show, but I know the treasures that 
are stored in his mind, for I have benefited by 
them from time to time. 

“This is a pleasure, John. When you want to 
see me on business, it must mean something,” he 
says heartily, and at the same time getting his 
work in on my hand, while I reciprocate. 

“The girl said you were busy, professor?” 

“So I am, very; but I can always lay aside the 
cares of life to see you briefly." 

“Can you give me a quarter of an hour, or at 
the most a half?” I ask. 

“Readily. " 


*54 


ANOTHER POINT GAINED 


155 


Satisfied, I sit down, and Jacks does the same. 
I notice that he glances at my package as 
though curious to know what I have in it, for 
I have begun to unfasten the cord. 

Before I disclose the contents, however, I have 
a few questions to ask the professor. 

“You had a visitor before me — I saw him 
coming out of the house?” 

“Yes,” quietly. 

“Mr. Smithers?” 

“Ah! you know him?" 

“I should think so. It is partly on his account 
I am here.” 

“Indeed!" 

‘Professor, don’t think I am curious; but it 
was I who referred that man to you, and I am 
anxious to know what his business was.” 

He hesitates a moment. 

“You know he is a detective?" 

"Yes,” I reply. 

“His business is a secret one; perhaps I would 
hardly be doing the right thing to tell it. Like a 
doctor, I regard many of the communications I 
receive as confidential.” 

“Perhaps I could give a guess.” 

There is only one possible solution of the 
mystery in my mind — I can conceive of no other 
reason why Smithers should seek the presence 
of the professor. 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


156 

“He did not bring anything for you to examine?” 

“True. ” 

“But asked your opinion, on the contrary, as 
to how he was to determine the nature of a 
certain substance that had been spilled on a 
dress?” 

The professor’s eyebrows rise, indicating his 
surprise, and I know that I am on the right track. 

“Well, you seem to know his business pretty 
well — how is this?” he asks. 

“Because I am on the same line myself.” 

“He’s got the start of you — I supplied him 
with information and chemicals, and he has gone 
to look into the matter.” 

At this I laugh. 

“Professor, when you set a lawyer against a 
detective, look out for fun. I may have taken 
too long at my supper to get here first, but for 
all that I think I have the bulge on our mutual 
friend. He has the chemicals and knowledge, 
but, as you see, I have the garment itself.” 

With that I open the packet and shake out the 
fleecy cream-colored skirt worn by Tom’s wife, 
and which he has put into my hands for the very 
purpose to which I am applying it. 

The professor smiles. 

“I give you credit for your shrewdness, John, 
and will back you to succeed.” 

“Go slow, professor. The man I am dealing 


ANOTHER POINT GAINED 


^57 


with is no chicken. He has a fertile brain, but the 
trouble with him now is just this: He is so con- 
fident of a certain thing that one cannot con- 
vince him otherwise — in his eyes, all roads lead 
to Rome. On my part, I don’t want to believe 
as he does, and therefore I can see other things. ” 

Then I point out the stain to him. 

“Tell me about it while I work," he says. 

“How long will it take you?” 

“In ten minutes I think I will be able to tell 
you what caused that stain.” 

While he commences operations I proceed to 
tell him as much of the case as he will care to 
hear, and of course he is interested — who could 
help it when a fair woman is placed in a posi- 
tron of deadly peril? 

As I talk I watch him. 

He has gathered the hem of the skirt, and 
immersed it in a little bowl containing some 
liquid, which I do not believe is water, for the 
action is too speedy. 

Moving it gently around for a few minutes, 
he finally shows me that every particle of color 
has been removed — the skirt is as clean as ever, 
and he rinses the wet portion under a faucet, 
after which he gives me the skirt to roll up 
again in a bundle when I choose. 

I talk on — he works. 

One instrument after another he drops into the 


158 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


liquid, little glass tubes containing liquor and 
all manner of strange contrivances — I know he 
is testing to discover what ingredients there are 
in the colored fluid in the bowl. 

My curiosity would be aroused, under ordinary 
circumstances; and considering what an interest 
I have in the matter, it may be readily under- 
stood that I watch him closely. 

He is as grave as though the fate of nations 
depended on his work, and I find myself utterly 
unable to read his thoughts. 

Finally I finish my story. 

The ten minutes are almost up, and if he keeps 
his word I will soon know all. 

He pours the tested liquor into a phial, writes 
some hieroglyphics upon the label, and then turns 
to me with a smile. 

“Your story is most interesting, John, and 
you know, without my saying it, that my sym- 
pathy is with your side. I sincerely hope you 
may be able to prove the lady innocent.” 

“Do you give me hope of this?” I ask, 
eagerly. 

“There is nothing here to criminate her.” 

“Then, the stain — " 

“Was not made by human blood.” 

I draw a breath of relief. 

“What was it, then?” 

“Iron rust, caused in the washing. You see, \ 


ANOTHER POINT GAINED 


59 


have taken it out without hurting the fabric — 
whiclt is a secret of my own.” 

‘‘Professor, one more favor.” 

‘‘Name it, my boy,” kindly. 

‘‘Will you put this in the shape of a formal 
document, to the effect that the stain was as 
you found it, and so on?” 

‘‘Willingly. See, I have blanks for just such a 
purpose. Let me also privately mark that dress 
before you wrap it up, so I can swear to it again, 
if it becomes necessary.” 

I watch him filling out the blank with a real 
pleasure, such as I have not known for quite a 
long time. Mr. Smithers will no doubt be aston- 
ished when he finds that his chemicals will be 
of no avail, since the stain has been removed 
and analyzed. 

‘‘Wasn’t that a dark mark for iron rust?” I 
ask the professor; at which he smiles. 

‘‘The lady endeavored to remove it with a 
preparation, and although it disappeared while 
wet, no sooner had it dried than it came back 
almost as dark as a blood stain could be. My 
discovery will be a boon to humanity, I presume. 
There, read that over, and Pll sign it." 

The document is framed to cover .every legal 
view of the case, and I cannot see how it could 
be bettered. When I tell him this, he puts his 
name to it, with his private stamp. 


i6o THE CHRTHRET AFFAIR 

“Success to you, friend John. Let me hear 
how the affair comes out, you know; ’’ and aS I 
take his hand again in leaving, I feel that the 
professor is one among a thousand, always ready 
to do a friend a favor. 

I leave him to go at his serious business, and 
soon find myself on the street again. It is about 
eight o’clock, and while I am too late for one 
train, I have an hour to wait for the next. 

This is unfortunate, for I would much rather be 
at Tom’s place — there are so many things to be 
done before morning, if we expect to be able to 
clear up the great mystery before the coroner’s 
jury begins the inquest. 

I walk down Broadway for amusement. 

The moon is already up, but not high enough 
to discourage the electric lights. As the evening 
is a lovely one, many people are promenading at 
this hour. 

It is a treat to a born New-Yorker to even 
remember Broadway, when away from home, and 
as a bachelor I am very fond of the portion 
between Madison and Union Squares. I know a 
great many people to be seen there in the after- 
noon of a pleasant day — actors, lawyers, men 
of letters, and rich young chaps whose greatest 
desire in li4e is to cultivate these people, no 
matter what the cost to themselves. 

While I wander down the street, keeping an 





I INTERVIEW PROFESSOR JACKS. -Page 156. 







y4NOTHER POINT GAINED i6i 

eye on the time, as I do not mean to get left, 1 
see several people I know, but stop to talk with 
none, for my time is too precious. 

Finally I board a car, and am soon spinning 
along in the direction of the Battery, at a speed 
only attained by Broadway drivers. 

The ferry-boat takes me across the broad river, 
and I delight in standing outside and looking 
upon the myriad of lights that mark the two 
cities, with the brighter gleam ahead where the 
slip lies for which we aim. 

A weary wait, and at length we are off. I am 
by this time growing rather accustomed to the 
trip, having made it now three times inside of 
fifteen hours. 

On the way my thoughts cannot be kept off 
the case — I feel that this night is bound to be 
fraught with still more singular events than have 
characterized the day, and can only sincerely 
hope that the vague dreams in which I have 
indulged may come true. Whether I have any- 
thing more substantial than faith upon which to 
build my plans, the near future will prove. 

It is always tiresome to me traveling by night; 
true, the moon shines from an unclouded sky, 
but one can see little of scenery by moonlight. 
A water scene looks picturesque enough, but at a 
short distance a stump may easily be taken for a 
cow. 

The Cartaret Affair ji 


i 62 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


I prepare, then, to settle back, and take things 
easy for the trip of nearly an hour. 

Of course, old uncle will be waiting forme, so 
I >have no fears of being compelled to walk at 
the other .end of my railroad journey. 

I have entered the smoker, so that I may en- 
joy my cigar, and take it easy. A few others have 
come in from time to time, but I hardly notice 
them, my thoughts being busy elsewhere. 

How would this strange case come out? Would 
I be able to ward off the blow that threatens the 
fortunes of Tom Cartaret, and save his young 
wife from despair? 

I realize as never before what a big task I 
have undertaken, and yet I am not daunted. “As 
long as there’s life there’s hope” and a lawyer 
can find about as much encouragement in this 
old saying as a physician. 

While I lie back on the cushions, with my hat 
drawn over my eyes to shield them from the 
light, I am conscious that someone has settled 
down in the seat beside me. Curiosity causes me 
to raise my head in order to glance at this per- 
son, for there are plenty of empty seats, when 
my eyes rest upon — Smithers! 


CHAPTER XVIII 


A TRAP FOR THE SLEEP-WALKER 

I am not greatly surprised. True, I believed 
Smithers had departed on the eight o’clock train; 
but, for some reason or other, he has seen fit 
to wait over for the next one. 

He eyes me curiously. 

“My dear Peters, it seems to me you are 
fond of railroading, or trying to use up a com- 
muter’s ticket that is near its end. Three 
times in one day is drawing it rather heavy." 

His tone bristles with interrogation-points, 
but I am in no hurry to let him know what I 
have been at. Having gained an advantage, I 
am desirous of enjoying it. Perhaps, at some 
time in the near future, he may have me in a 
similar hole, and I misjudge his nature if he 
does not give me the full benefit. 

“Business necessitates a trip; it is not a mat- 
ter of choice," I reply, quietly. 

“Ah! another Gautier?" 

“Not this time. By the way, I put your let- 
ter in the post-office. Strange that you made 
me a mail-carrier when you came yourself." 

163 


164 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


He laughs. 

"Didn’t dream of it at the time. Notion came 
to me suddenly — started to walk — met a wagon 
on the way — saw you pass me, and was sorry I 
did not call out — almost missed the train, and 
just jumped on while it was on the move. All 
the same. I’m obliged to 5^ou. ” 

"Don’t mention it. I suppose you reported 
the affair in person, so the letter will be stale 
news. ’’ 

"No, I did not go near headquarters. That 
could keep easily enough. I had other fish to 
fry," looking at me significantly. 

"I don’t suppose you were near Twenty-third 
street?" I ask maliciously, and enjoy his look of 
genuine surprise. 

"Yes, I was in that quarter.” 

"You found him a fine gentleman?" 

"Whom do you mean?" 

"Jacks." 

He chuckles at this. 

"You lawyers are sharp at cross-questions. Of 
course, you can guess what took me to the pro- 
fessor’s den?" 

I point to a little package he holds. 

"That is the fruit of it, I presume." 

"Yes; chemicals to discover what the nature 
of that dark stain on the dress of Tom Cartaret’s 
wife may be." 


A TRAP FOR THE SLEEP-IVALKER 165 

My time has come at last! 

“Mr. Smithers, I can save you much trouble 
in this affair,” I say, soberly. 

“In what way?” 

“You cannot, by the aid of any chemicals, dis 
cover the nature of that stain on the dress.” 

“That’s your idea only. We’ll see what we’ll 
see. Meanwhile, perhaps you might not object 
to telling me why I will fail with this infallible 
means?” 

“Certainly; because there is now no stain upon 
the hem of that dress.” 

Smithers looks at me and scowls — his face can 
appear very ugly when in this mood. 

‘‘See here! have you been meddling in this 
matter? If you have destroyed evidence — ” 

“I know the value of evidence too well to de- 
stroy it. I have simply anticipated your move, 
sir. That bundle up in the rack contains the 
dress — Professor Jacks has made a chemical anal- 
ysis of the stain, and there is his report.” 

Saying which, I hand the astounded Smithers 
the document, which he reads with avidity. 

‘‘Iron rust, eh? That settles the case so far 
as the stain is concerned. I must compliment 
you, Mr. Peters, on your acumen; but you must 
not imagine the matter is ended. There may be 
one the less proof against the lady, but you must 
admit that the affair looks black for her.” 


i66 


THE CHRTARET AFFAIR 


I acknowledge this fact, and yet I am not so 
discouraged as my face might declare. Success 
thus far has served to increase my zeal, and I am 
gaining confidence in my plans. Perhaps, after 
all, what Smithers remarked with reference to 
my abilities as a detective may turn out to be 
true. 

"I did not dream that you meant to go to the 
city on the same business, Mr. Smithers, but 
when I saw you come out of the professor’s 
house, I jumped at conclusions. The rest I 
learned from him, though he was reluctant about 
disclosing professional secrets, and it was only 
after I had shown him how close my suspicions 
were that he talked.” 

“This is number two,” he says, grimly. ‘Tf 
you can dispose of a few more points with the 
same success, John Peters, you will win.” 

That is the first time he has even breathed a 
word with reference to the possibility of my 
final triumph, and it raises new hopes. At any 
rate, I have succeeded in arousing the respect of 
this shrewd detective. 

It is not so very strange, after all. I have seen 
an expert and a novice play a game, and the new 
beginner, with luck back of him, rout his antag- 
onist. Such things frequently happen in every- 
one’s experience. 

Just now fortune favors me, and yet in another 


A TRAP FOR THE SLEEP-IVALKER 


167 


game I might stand no show at all. I am wise 
enough to know this, and do not delude myself 
with vain conceits. 

“How are you going to get back? — will the old 
nigger be waiting?” asked Smithers. 

“I expect him to — he had his orders.” 

“From Tom?" 

“Yes. ” 

“Then, he knows of your visit?” 

“Certainly. ” 

“And its object?” 

“It was Tom who brought me the dress.” 

Smithers shakes his head a trifle — that is his 
way when thinking. 

“Two against one, eh? Well, I rather think 
I have the advantage of you yet. Although it 
would hurt my professional pride should such a 
thing happen, I can truly say, Mr. Peters, that 
I hope you will succeed, for the sake of Tom 
Cartaret and his young wife." 

Words count but little with me. Looking at 
the detective, I am constrained to believe, how- 
ever, that he speaks the truth. There is little of 
sentiment in him, but that small portion has 
been aroused in this case. Perhaps the beauty 
of Tom’s wife has slightly bewitched this man 
of the world. Even the jury in the box and the 
judge on the bench are affected by a beautiful 
woman — it may be insensibly, but true all the 


i68 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


same. At the same time, this man has grown so 
accustomed to dealing with dashing adventuresses 
and confidence women, perhaps, that he will not 
hesitate about applying the crucial tests of the 
law when the proper time comes. 

“Mr. Smithers, you told me that in all proba- 
bility the inquest would be carried out in the 
morning — before or after the burial?” I say, de- 
sirous of leading the conversation in a certain 
channel. 

“Correct.” 

“Do you think it can be arranged so that we 
might close the case before the inquest, and 
thus present the true facts to the jurors?” 

“So far as I am concerned, sir, I am ready to 
close the case at any time.” 

I feel uneasy at his answer. 

“I understand what you mean — your case is 
so positive that you can rest on your oars. Then, 
you have delayed this foreclosure — ’ 

“Partly in deference to you, and, again, because 
I half expected something to turn up. That 
something has not yet happened, and, as I said, 
I am ready to call the case at any time.” 

“Give me as long as you can." 

“Willingly. You have some plan, Mr. Peters?” 

“Yes; but you may call it a wild hope.” 

“Nevertheless, if you are so minded, I would 
like to hear what it is.” 




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'*y4r^ ,L^V'-.* * - ‘ 2 * 







“MR. SMITHERS, HAVE YOU EVER KNOWN A SOMNAMBULIST 
BEFORE.”— Page 169. 


A TRAP FOR THE SLEEP-lVALKER 


169 


He shows curiosity, and that in itself grati- 
fies my natural vanity — I am human, though a 
lawyer. 

“Well, as we have more than half an hour on 
this accommodation train before reaching the 
station at Clifton, and as this subject is upper- 
most in our minds, I don’t mind telling you my 
plan — perhaps you will laugh at it, and, again, 
you may see some merit in it.” 

He settles himself comfortably, and prepares 
to listen, while I puff at my cigar a moment, as if 
to collect my thoughts. 

“Mr. Smithers, have you ever known a somnam- 
bulist before?” 

“I have not." 

“Did you ever make a study of the peculiari- 
ties of the disease — for it is that?” 

“No, sir,” he replies. 

“Then, you have missed strange reading. On my 
part, I have read some things of an extraordi- 
nary nature connected with sleep-walking, all au- 
thenticated, and I am ready to believe almost any- 
thing that can be said.” 

“I understand that people do singular things 
when thus afflicted; but it is too much for me to 
swallow when you declare that Tom Cartaret’s 
wife committed this murder in her sleep, and 
knows nothing o<f her guilt. Not that the thing 
is impossible — goodness knows. I’ve met wilti 


70 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


facts just as singular; but it is out of the range 
of probabilities."* 

“I do not care to discuss that just now, my dear 
fellow. The future will prove which of us is right. 
What I want to do is to impress on your mind 
some of the odd things that have come to me in 
connection with somnambulism.” 

. “Ah! I am ready to grasp them.” 

“What impressed me the most in this matter 
was one singular thing: When a person addicted 
to this singular malady of sleep-walking does 
a thing on one night, he or she is almost certain 
to repeat it on the succeeding night at the same 
hour, provided all is well.” 

He shows sudden interest. 

“I’m catching your idea; proceed.” 

“For instance, a certain young girl was seen to 
cross a dangerous foot-bridge in the moonlight, 
at midnight, and they found she was walking in 
her sleep. Watching her, they found she repeated 
the performance every night. It was learned 
that from this point she had watched her lover 
go in a boat out to his ship. Other cases are 
similar; one in particular has a bearing upon 
this matter — let me briefly narrate it. An old 
miser was robbed ; he called in the aid of a de- 
tective; they suspected the nephew of the miser — 
had him tracked, but to no avail. Finally the 
detectives got a clue and watched the old man 


A TRAP FOR THE SLEEP-WALKER 171 

in his sleep; saw him get up, go to where the 
empty box had replaced the one that contained 
his treasure, take it, and, proceeding to the cel- 
lar, dig a hole. Then the detective discovered 
that the old man was doing it all in his sleep. 
He dared not awaken him then, for fear of dis- 
astrous consequences, but in the morning he 
told the miser all. Eagerly they went below, 
and, digging, found both boxes.” 

The detective shuts one eye reflectively. 

"By Jove, Mr. Peters! perhaps you have hit 
on an excellent scheme, by means of which the 
truth may be ascertained — provided, of course, 
the ghost will walk." 

‘T take the chances of that.” 

“You think, then — ” 

“That if we secrete ourselves in the library of 
the house between the hours of midnight and 
one, we may witness something that will give 
us satisfaction, at least, and one of us a sur- 
prise. " 

‘‘ThaPs easily done,” he says, readily. 

“Then, shall we call it a bargain?”- 

"Assuredly; and if it is a success, I stand 
ready to give you the praise, Mr. Peters. On 
the whole, no harm can be done, and, as you say, 
there is a chance of your learning the positive 
truth. ” 

"Then, that point is settled, At midnight. 


172 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


s 

meet me at the library door, and we will decide 
as to the best hiding-place." 

Mr.- Smithers smiles and nods. He does not 
once suspect, I am sure, the covert design I have 
in view, and doubtless believes that if there is 
any surprise, it will be on me. He forgets I am 
a lawyer, and that you seldom catch a weasel 
asleep. 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE SCENE OF ACTION AGAIN 

€o far, I have had no reason to regret the com- 
pany of Mr. Smithers — in fact, I am rather glad 
he has waited for the nine o’clock accommodation, 
since it has given us the opportunity to con- 
verse. 

Once or twice I have found myself wondering 
what it could have been that kept him so long, 
and whether he had learned in some way that I 
meant to take that train. 

He knew I was in the city, and that I would in 
all likelihood go out that night; so it seemed 
as though he might have concluded to wait over 
a train for the sake of my company and the as- 
sistance to be received at Clifton. 

I have decided this matter, and am not worry- 
ing my head about it at all, when the detective 
knocks the whole theory over with a few words. 

"Since you saw me leave the house of the pro- 
fessor I have been through quite a little experi- 
ence, my dear Peters,” he remarks. 

"How was that?" 

He shows me his right hand. The knuckles are 
certainly bruised, as though they have come in 

173 


174 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


contact with some hard substance. I immediately 
imagine Smithers has been in a fight. 

"Where did you get that?" I ask. 

"It’s quite a little story, and has a connection 
with this case we are working on. Would you 
like to hear it?" 

Of course I signify my assent. Consulting my 
watch, I find that we have at least twenty minutes 
before Clifton station is reached, and I am at all 
times ready to hear a good story; besides, 
Smithers has said it has some bearing on the case 
in point. 

So I settle back in my corner of the seat, and 
take things as easy as I can while he talks. 

"While looking around the grounds at the Car- 
taret place, I came upon the foot-prints you laid 
such stress on — at least, I presume they were the 
same. Curiosity caused me to bend down and 
examine them, and I noticed one peculiar thing 
in connection with the same: the sole of one shoe 
had been patched, so that the line of division 
between the old and the new ran diagonally 
across. Such a thing makes a fine clue to fol- 
low, and it was especially interesting to me, 
because I remembered seeing such a shoe within 
the last few days. At first I could not place it, 
but after awhile it all came suddenly to me, and 
I remembered that the man who wore the patched 
shoe was a notorious crook — a man known as Joe 


THE SCENE OF ACTION 


175 


the Fox. When I found I had time on my hands — 
more than an hour, if I wanted to catch the train 
you intended coming out on — the idea arose that 
I might as well look up this fellow. I hadn’t 
much idea that he would prove a success, but 
the main thought, I own, was to steal a little of 
your thunder, you understand.” 

I nod my head, being already interested. 

“Well, I left my package in a drug store where 
I could call for it again, and then set out for the 
place where the Fox might be found. It is my 
business to know where such men congregate, 
you understand. When a job has been done, 
I examine everything carefully, and generally I 
am able, from the finger-marks about it, to de- 
cide who the author is, and then where to find 
him. Hence, in a short time I am in the un- 
savory neighborhood where the Fox holds forth — 
a region known locally as the Beefsteak. The 
Fox is a member of the gang that flourishes 
here, a terror to the police, since its members 
are so numerous and bold. Luck was with me, and 
I soon got on the trail of the man I sought. After 
that it did not take me long to run him down. 
Of course, I didn’t immediately tell him what I 
wanted, but pretended I was a rich gent in 
search of a man who would do a little job sub 
rosa for me, and be well paid for it. The Fox 
jumped eagerly at my bait — he was rather well 


176 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


Strapped, I saw, and needed money. Watching 
him, I also thought he was carrying some weighty 
secret around with him, for he seemed uneasy 
aind nervous. I managed to get him away from 
the rest of his gang, and with several drinks 
partly stupefied his senses. Then I sprung my 
game, and this is the way I did it: Telling him 
a cock-and-bull story of an imaginary wrong I 
had suffered from a man, he asked me, naturally 
enough, who the party was against whom he was 
to be pitted. Watching his face closely, I men- 
tioned the name of Luther Cartaret, of Clifton. 
He changed color, and looked at me. 

“'Ain’t that the cove that was killed*?’ he de- 
manded. 

“‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘and you’re the man that’s 
going to be arrested for the killing.’ 

“At first he looked all knocked in a heap, and 
then he got mad. 

'"What nonsense is this?’ he asked. 

“'You’ll find it no nonsense unless you give an 
account of yourself for the last twenty-four hours. 
The proof against you is utterly overwhelming, 
even to the mark of your patched shoe in the 
garden soil. If you were not there, then where 
did you hold forth?’ 

“I had the man in a hole, and I saw it. He 
could not escape the charge of murder except by 
criminating himself another way, and hence he 


THE SCENE OF ACTION 


177 


found himself in a bad fix. In desperation, he 
at length declared that on the night before he 
had been one of the party that made the unsuc- 
cessful attack on the safe of the factory away 
over in Brooklyn. Thus, to prove an alibi on 
account of one crime, he found himself compelled 
to acknowledge another. I believed that what he 
said was true, but unfortunately I thought to scare 
the fellow a little, in order to pay myself for my 
trouble. He became alarmed, and, before I knew 
what he was up to, sprang at me like a tiger, 
believing that I meant to take him in on one 
charge or the other. Well, we had a hot little 
time of it, I tell you, though it lasted only a 
couple of minutes. I rather think I had the better 
of the bargain, for I gave the rascal several good 
blows, the result of which you see on my knuckles. 
By this time, however, several others of the 
gang thought it about time to take a part in the 
game, and as I didn’t have my fighting rig on 
just then, I concluded it w^ould pay me about as 
well to retreat. This I did skillfully, and 
although they hunted high and low for me, having 
learned from the Fox that I was a detective — and 
these fellows would rather thrash an officer than 
eat — they probably gave up the thing as a bad job. 
So you see my venture in your field was not 
much of a success, after all. The man was equal 
to a deed like this we are looking up, but he 
The Car tar et Affair 12 


178 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


didn’t happen to be here last night. When such 
a rascal, to prove an alibi, criminates himself, 
you may know he is in earnest.” 

“You had quite a time of it. I know what 
those fellows are. Some years ago I used to go 
around with Jerry McAuley, and saw the worst 
side of New York life.” 

‘‘Ah! Jerry was a queer character.” 

‘‘You knew him, Smithers?” 

‘‘Well. He was a man such as I believe in — 
plain-spoken and honest. He never posed for a 
saint, but let everybody know that time was 
when he was the chief of sinners.” 

‘‘He did a power of good at his mission.” 

‘‘Yes. A score of such planted about the slums 
of Gotham would do more actual work in a year 
than all the churches of the city. The men who 
labor there are devoted to their work, and in 
sympathy with the masses.” 

So we converse on things in general while the 
train draws nearer Clifton. I am glad the de- 
tective has made a failure of his effort to discover 
the identity of the person who is responsible for 
the foot-prints in the garden. As he said, it was 
stealing my thunder anyway, for he did not be- 
lieve in the theory. 

He has been remarkably frank in acknowledg- 
ing the facts, anchl must say I admire real can- 
dor above all things. 


THE SCENE OF ACTION 


179 


At length the train slows down. 

“Clifton ! ” 

Mr. Smithers leads the way, and I follow, 
careful not to leave my package behind. 

When we pass around the depot, I am pleased 
to find Uncle Jethro on hand. He has the same 
old family carriage that we used before. 

Ere entering, I speak to the telegraph operator, 
and let him understand there is no need of keep- 
ing on the alert longer. 

Then we start. 

It is a very comfortable way of getting there, 
and I for one appreciate it, though I would have 
walked the mile rather than be left. Some- 
thing tells me that my presence at the house is of 
the first importance on this night of nights 

The moon, still almost full, shines from an 
unclouded sky, and calls forth many exclama- 
tions of delight from both of us. She has the 
appearance of a huge silver shield hung up in 
the heavens by invisible cords. 

I do not remember ever having seen a night 
when the heavenly luminary shone more brightly, 
and somehow it seems to me an augury of success 
— at any rate, I take it as such, and my spirits 
rise in consequence. 

We draw near the Cartaret grounds, and I rap- 
idly sketch various little plans in my mind 
which I contemplate putting into effect. 


i8o 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


When at length we arrive, I let Mr. Smithers 
get out first, for I mean to have a word or two 
with the old darky. To facilitate matters, I pre- 
tend to be searching for my package until I see 
that the detective has gone into the house, and 
then I find the bundle. 

As I step out of the family coach, I say : 

“Uncle! ” 

“Yes, sah.” 

“Pm coming out to see you after a while — I 
have some news for you. Don’t go to bed until 
I come, will you?” 

Even in the moonlight I can see his ebony 
features show surprise; but the old fellow re- 
plies: 

“ ’Deed I won’t, Marse John. What time kin I 
look for youse?” 

“Between now and half past eleven — sometime 
inside of an hour.” 

“Berry good, sah. Pse on de watch, an’ keep 
de camp-fires burnin’; ” and speaking to his fine 
horses, he drives toward the stables. 

Looking after him, I wonder how my plan will 
come out. There is no indication as yet of what 
the result will be; but the few hours to follow 
must be heavily burdened with events bearing 
on the tragedy. 

No sooner has the vehicle vanished under the 
shadows of the trees than an idea comes into my 


THE SCENE OF ACTION 


i8i 

head. I lay the package down on the veranda, 
and move away. 

Perhaps it is a queer time for a stroll, but I 
want a few minutes more to collect my thoughts 
and frame my future action. 

My stroll leads me in the direction of the wall 
lying between the Cartaret grounds and the cem- 
etery. Presently I sight the gate or door in the 
wall through which the body of Luther Cartaret 
must be borne to its last resting-place ere an- 
other sunset. 

Stepping up, I examine the door to see how old 
Jethro has secured it. The work is done in a 
bungling fashion, and it only requires one sturdy 
pull on my part to send flying the nail which he 
has driven, and the door opens. 

I only look through, however, and then close it 
again, making no attempt to fasten it. 

Then, turning on my heel, I walk quickly back 
in the direction of the house, ready for my 
interview with Tom, who must be growing anx- 
ious, for of course he heard the carriage return, 
and has seen nothing of me. Poor fellow! I am 
sure he has lived a year since I left him. 


CHAPTER XX 


“RACHEL BABETTE IS SURELY DEAD! " 

It is just as I expected: Tom has grown so 
anxious that he cannot longer remain seated 
within, but has come out to see what has be- 
come of me. I meet him at the piazza. 

“John, you are back again?” he says, quickly, 
holding out his hand, and I cannot fail to notice 
how feverish it is. 

Even if everything comes out well, I have an 
idea that Tom will pass through a sick spell yet 
— his nerves have been drawn to their utmost 
tension, and something must soon give way. 

“Yes, home again, Tom; and it’s delightful 
to get out in this quiet nook after the fiendish 
clatter of Broadway,” I exclaim. 

“Will you come in?” 

“Wouldn’t you rather walk? The night is per- 
fect — not too cool, and that moon is heavenly." 

He shudders as I speak of it, and I know his 
mind instantly reverts to the preceding night, 
when he saw, in the white moonlight, his wife 
entering her room. That scene must always come 
before him when he looks upon the beauties of 
fair Luna. 


182 


^^RAQHEL BA BETTE IS SURELY DEADU 


“I presume it would be more pleasant outside 
than in, John.” 

So saying, he steps down off the piazza, and 
draws my arm in his. 

“Come, lead the way — you are at home,” I 
remark, anxious to clear the house before start- 
ing upon my theme. 

Tom does not hesitate, but leads the way along 
a lovely walk. The trees hang over us, their 
branches soughing in the night wind, and scatter- 
ing leaves upon the ground. 

In places the moonlight peeps through, forming 
weird figures upon the walk; and passing along 
this romantic route, we head for a rustic seat 
that is to be found part way down the avenue. 

“Now, tell me, what success did you have?” 
asks Tom, with quivering lips. 

Glancing back, I see that we are far enough 
from the house to be beyond all danger of our 
conversation drifting thither. I am thinking of 
Smithers. True, he knows already all that I 
intend saying, but I do not care to have hiin 
listening. 

“The best, Tom. I had the professor analyze 
the subject of the stain. First, he took it out of 
the garment entirely, and then experimented, 
finally declaring it was iron rust, the result, 
probably, of a rusty wash-boiler.” 

I hear Tom give a deep sigh, and feel his form 


184 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


quiver. His relief is great, and I am already 
repaid for all my work. 

“God kies's you, John! ’’ he murmurs. 

To cover up his confusion, I begin to tell him 
how the professor arrived at this conclusion, and 
end by showing him the document that proves my 
story, which, of course, he cannot read there, but 
seems to take considerable satisfaction in hand- 
ling. 

“The most singular thing about it all, Tom, 
was the fact that I outwitted Smithers again." 

“How was that?” 

“He had been to the professor to secure certain* 
chemicals to be used for determining the nature 
of a stain in a dress.” 

Tom is silent a moment, and then laughs. 

“That is as good as luck. I reckon he’ll be 
mortified when he finds — ” 

"Oh! he knows now. We came out on the 
same train, and I had the pleasure of letting 
him into the game.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Took it in much better grace than I ex- 
pected, and declared 1 was doing well." 

“John, I have faith in you." 

“Don’t put too much, Tom, old fellow; wait 
awhile, until I have proved my title." 

“Iron rust, and not blood — thank heaven for 
that, at least,” he mutters. 


RACHEL BABETTE IS SUREL Y DEADr 185 


“Don’t build your hopes too high; that was 
only one of numerous points the detective has 
against your wife.” 

“I remember,” sadly; “but it does me good 
to discover even a loop-hole. In other words, 
it looks to me as though events were shaping 
themselves in our favor. ” 

“To entirely clear your wife, Tom, this awful 
thing must be placed on someone else.” 

“I know it.” 

“Suicide is utterly out of the question; all are 
agreed upon that point.” 

“It cannot be entertained; even to screen one 
I love better than my life, I will not put such a 
disgrace upon the dead. No; my father came to 
his death at the hands of an assassin, and in the 
interest of truth and justice, that party must be 
found, no matter at what cost.” 

He says this bravely, and I know what it costs 
him. If ever a hero lived, it is Tom just at 
this juncture, when he has every reason in the 
world to conceal the truth, and yet resists the 
natural inclination. Justice to the dead, as well 
as to the living, is his idea. 

“Smithers heard me speak of some foot-prints 
in the grounds, and even examined them.” 

I go on and tell him the whole of the detect- 
ive’s adventure with Joe the Fox. 


i86 


THE CHRTHRET HFFAIR 


"Thus, you see, that clue falls to the ground. 
We must cast about us for new ones." 

“It looks as though we were back where we 
started from,” he says, gloomily. 

"Oh, no! don’t think that. Much has been 
accomplished; I believe we are on the home-run, 
and that the truth will soon appear. ” 

He turns and looks at me. 

"John, you are keeping something from me," 
he says, reproachfully. 

"Well, you see — ” 

"That isn’t fair. I am so deeply interested in 
this business that you should make me a confi- 
dant. Tell me all," he pleads. 

"I have a little plan in view. I spoke of it to 
Smithers, and he commended it. Perhaps it 
may. succeed; it is worth trying.” 

"Let me hear it." 

So I introduced the subject of somnambulism, 
and relate the queer things I have read and 
known. Tom listens eagerly, and soon catches 
my idea, as I can readily see, although he does 
not interrupt^me. Thus I finish. 

"It may succeed," breathes Tom at my 
side. 

He is not enthusiastic— why should he be? I 
have not taken him into my full confidence, and 
to his mind success simply means the fulfillment 
of our suspicion that his wife is unconsciously 


RACHEL BABETTE IS SURELY DEAD!" 187 

guilty — that she has done the deed of murder in 
her sleep. 

"Do you think it is a good idea?” I ask. 

"Remarkably clever, John. I know something 
about sleep-walkers, and can affirm the facts you 
mention as true. Once a feat is performed, there 
is a likelihood that it will be repeated again 
and again. If Madge is guilty, she will go 
through the same actions when she walks again.” 

"Where is she now?” 

"Asleep in her chair, just as on last night. I 
was astonished to find her there, but carefully ab- 
stained from arousing her." 

"In that you were wise. At first it was not my 
intention to tell you about this; but I changed 
my mind. Then, I can count on your helping us 
to keep the vigil?” 

"Aye, with all my heart. It is my own Madge 
who is under suspicion, and who but her Tom 
should be there if she awakens while in that 
room?" 

"Truly, it is your place; that is why I thought 
best to tell you about it. I have some other things 
to talk about, Tom.” 

"Connected with this sad event? For I can 
hardly think of anything else." 

"I don’t blame you. Yes, they concern the 
actors in this tragedy. It is of your father I 
would speak now." 


88 


THE CylRTHRET AFFAIR 


“Go on. 

“He was a singular man, devoted to the mem- 
ory of your mother, was he not?” ' 

“Yes,” with emphasis; “many hours a week did 
he spend at the grave in the cemetery. I know 
much of his finest work was done there. Even 
the terrors of a cemetery at night did not daunt 
him. Such a night as this I have known him to 
spend there.” 

“Let me see; didnH you once tell me, years 
ago, that he had met with some misfortune?” 

A pause. 

“Yes; I remember telling you.” 

“You did not give me the particulars, Tom, at 
the time; but it seems to me I can remember 
that a woman was at the bottom of it.” 

“You are right.” 

“She assailed your father, who held her as 
well as he could, and shouted for help. Fortu- 
nately, this was in the day-time; people came to 
his aid; the woman was driven away; I believe 
she was deranged.” 

“John, that is so; she was crazy, and would 
have killed father,” slowly. 

“Why should she?” 

“You know the strange fancies of mad persons; 
they hate their best friends.” 

“She had no reason to look upon your father 
as her enemy, then?” 


'^RACHEL BABETTE IS SURELY DEADr 189 


“No.’ 

“He had never injured her?” 

“Never, John; on the contrary — ” and here he 
stops before going further. 

“Tom, don’t hesitate; this may seem unim- 
portant to you, but it has a bearing on the ques- 
tion. On the contrary — what?” 

“He had been her best friend.’ 

“Tom, who was this woman?” 

He does not answer, but moves uneasily. 

“Was her name Rachel?” I continue. 

“Yes.” 

“She was your father’s second wife?” 

“It is true.” 

“What year was it this happened?” 

“When we were in college — our last year.” 

“1884?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, Tom, yonder slab in your father’s lot, 
recording the death of Rachel, is a deceit — it 
speaks of her dying in ’81.” 

“I know it." 

“Uncle Jethro told me a story about her being 
drowned at Watkin’s Glen, and your father hav- 
ing her buried in a local cemetery there.” 

“It proved to be an unknown woman. Rachel 
he found crazy at the same place. The idea 
occurred to him to bury the shame; so he de- 
clared it was Rachel who died. In reality, under 


190 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


the name of Barbara Brown, she was committed 
to an asylum and kept there. She escaped at 
that time, and found out my father, and would 
doubtless have murdered him had not help 
come.” 

I confess to some little excitement, which I 
endeavor to conceal as much as possible. Here 
is what I have been reaching for; I trust it will 
not elude my grasp. 

“Uncle Jethro knew all about it?” I ask. 

“He was fully in father’s confidence; in fact, 
I am sure he knows more about the matter than 
I do. But the old man is as close-mouthed as a 
clam; I am certain you cannot get him to dis- 
close a word of what he knows.” 

On my part, I feel confident that I possess 
the magic means of opening the darky’s mouth, 
and wrenching the truth from him as a dentist 
might a bad molar. There are ways of doing 
things beyond your ken, friend Tom; we of the law 
look deeper than the surface, and know how to 
play upon the emotions of men. Fear and love 
are great levers when properly handled. 

‘Tom, you can’t fail to grasp my hope — the 
lone ray I have before me. What if it should 
turn out that Rachel had again escaped from the 
asylum, and this time finished the dreadful work 
she attempted before?” * 


RACHEL BABETTE IS SURELY DEAOr 191 

I hold my breath while awaiting his reply. He 
shakes his head sadly; my heart sinks. 

“I would it were so, John; but your theory is 
impossible — Rachel Babette is surely dead!” 


HAPTER XXI 


MEMORIES OF THE PAST 

The steady assurance with which Tom Cartaret 
makes this assertion rather staggers me. I feel 
like a man who has, through patience, built up a 
castle, when someone knocks the underpinning 
away, and down falls the whole fabric in ruins. 

If Rachel is dead, then is my theory without 
the keystone needed to form a perfect arch; it 
must, in all probability, collapse. 

So 1 sit there for a full minute, among the 
ruins, pondering upon my subject. Tom makes 
no remark — he is also crushed; for, almost un- 
known to himself, he has been building on my 
hopes, and goes down with me. 

A dozen things flash before me — strange, how 
wonderfully active the mind becomes in a sudden 
emergency like this! There is nothing in all the 
world equal to the speed of thought — electricity 
becomes tame in comparison. I remember the 
creature I have seen, within ten hours, hovering 
about the Cartaret plot in the quiet cemetery; I 
see the lying stone that tells of RachePs demise 
in ^8i, when, in truth, that was fhe time she be- 
came dead to the world because the cold walls 
192 


.^EMORIES OF THE PAST 


193 


of an asylum closed about her; and I notice how 
some vandal hand has endeavored to pound out 
the false inscription — can I believe it was any 
other than the crazy woman herself? 

Tom says she is dead, this Rachel. Can he 
prove it? 

To my mind, the proof must indeed be strong 
in order to convince me. 

I rally a little, determined to make a fight 
still, before giving up. 

“Tom, your words rather knock me out— I 
hardly know what to say. When did she die? 
how do you know she is dead?” 

“Because I looked upon her body — it was buried 
with the other victims of the fire.” 

“Fire?” 

“Just before I went to Europe, the asylum 
burned down. We received a telegram, and as 
father was not feeling well, I determined to go 
with him. The sight was terrible! A number of 
victims — all women — had been found, and their 
charred bodies were only recognizable through 
trinkets they may have worn, or other peculiari- 
ties. The sight was horrible ! — it will never leave 
my memory. One poor wretch had been so burned 
that there was nothing left of her but the trunk, 
and upon this they found a watch, partly pro- 
tected by her garments, in which was the name 
‘Rachel Babette.’ I have it in the house now. 

TAe Car tar et Affair 


194 


THE CHRTARET HFFHIR 


Father fainted at the sight, and I was kept 
busy attending him for twenty-four hours. Then 
I found that the remains had been buried with 
the rest, and we did not disturb them, letting the 
wretched creature rest.” 

“Do you know whether any of the poor creatures 
escaped from the asylum?” 

He shakes his head. 

“I never heard of any; father never mentioned 
the matter in his letters. He was a man of 
singular reserve. ' At any rate, John, that was 
almost two years ago. You can’t conceive yourself 
of a poor, insane creature wandering around all 
that time without falling into the hands of the 
authorities. No, no; don’t build any hopes on 
such a theory.” 

I am a little put out at Tom’s manner; he 
seems to think I have had no substantial reasons 
for my belief, and hence I correct him. 

"See here, Tom, you don’t know all that I do. 
For instance, suppose I was to tell you that 
there is a crazy woman in the cemetery — I scared 
her away from your plot; the slab that bears the 
name of Rachel on it has been battered with a 
stone, as though by some spiteful hand — possibly 
hers?” 

He looks at me as though his interest were 
aroused, but still shakes his head. 

"I would say, John, that perhaps it is remark- 


MEMORIES OF THE PHST 


*95 


able that such a coincidence should occur; but I 
hope you will not lay too much stress on it, for 
you will be disappointed." 

"Another thing, Tom — listen to me, man — all 
our hopes depend upon my finding some peg here 
to hang the case on." 

"Heaven knows I wish you could, comrade — it 
would relieve us all wonderfully; but I fear the 
detective knows best, and that someone from 
within the house did this thing. But what else 
have you to tell?" 

"I have spoken to you about the marked foot- 
print — the same I saw about the place in the 
grave-yard where your lot lies. It is my belief 
this print is made by the wretched creature who 
frightened me, and whom I later on scared away 
from the place." 

"Well?" 

"If that be so, then this crazy creature must 
have been in these grounds last night." 

"Yes, but the library windows were closed; I 
remember it was very cool." 

"If anyone entered the house, he had no need 
to enter by means of a window. " 

"What do you mean?" 

"That the little side door was not only un- 
locked, but ajar, early in the morning, proving 
that your father had probably been out walking 


196 


THE C/IRTARET AFFAIR 


in the grounds, and failed to secure it after him 
when he returned.” 

“How do you know this?” Tom asks, in a sur- 
prised tone of voice. 

‘‘Partly from observation, and partly through 
what Uncle Jethro told me. He saw the door 
ajar when running to the house at the early 
alarm, and remembered it afterwards.” 

"As you intimate, John, this would be a case 
worthy of investigation, and I will cling to it 
like death, if your other plan fails.” 

‘‘By that you mean — ” 

‘‘Madge may not appear.” 

‘‘Well, we can only try, and do our best. It 
she does not come to time, we will accept it 
as a happy augury, and work with increased vim 
to find the guilty party. On the other hand, 
Tom, should she act in a way that — proves — her 
previous knowledge — of — the affair, you know, 
you must not take it too much to heart, my boy. 
Remember you have friends around you ready 
and eager to temper the blow. It would be bet- 
ter for you to expect the worst.” 

‘‘Why, John, that is strange advice to give.” 

‘‘Because I believe in being prepared for a 
rude shock. If, on the other hand, good news 
awaits you, it will be all the more welcome be- 
cause unexpected.” 

‘‘I comprehend your motives, and you are right. 


MEMORIES OF THE PAST 


197 


too. It is better to be on the safe side. But I 
seem to have had a tremendous disappointment. 
I did not dream before that I was depending so 
much on you. Heaven help our case, John Pe- 
ters, when you give it up. ” 

“I haven’t given it up yet, Tom, have I?” 

"No; but you feel discouraged — I can see it in 
your face — and it makes my heart heavy. Tell 
me, can they do anything with my Madge if it 
turns out that — she — did — it?" 

"If we can prove it was done in her sleep, they 
will have to let her go free. Even among the 
savage nations of the world, people out of their 
mind, temporarily or permanently, are beyond all 
punishment. ” 

"So I have heard. Then, they will not proceed 
against her?" 

"Oh, dear, yes; and experts will be summoned 
to swear to this, that, and the other absurdity. 
In the end, she will be discharged; but for 
weeks — yes, months — she will be held under sus- 
picion, until the State has deliberately found all 
the evidence against her." 

Tom groans heavily ; it pierces him to the heart 
to have such a thought even come to him 
through a friendly source. He looks something 
like the man I braced up during the day, and I 
realize that his backbone needs stiffening, mor- 
ally, if not physically. 


198 


THE CHRTHRET AFFAIR 


What can I say to comfort him? I would coin 
a portion of my blood to pay for evidence in his 
favor, if I could; but such a thing is, of course, 
beyond my power. 

As yet, I have not given up hope. I do not say 
anything about the broken nail at the gate, and 
Tom suspects not my thoughts. All must soon 
be revealed; if my idea is a success either way, 
they cannot but admit that my head was level 
when I proposed the watch. 

It is half-past ten. Still an hour and a half 
before the time set for the meeting. I tell Tom 
where I expect to find him waiting on the stroke 
of twelve, and he promises to be there. 

“What sort of a woman was this Rachel?’’ I 
ask, recovering somewhat, and desirous of push- 
ing the investigation to the utmost. 

“A bold woman, dashing in her ways, and des- 
perately in love with my father, strange as it may 
seem to you; but he was many years younger when 
she met him, and a very handsome as well as a 
wealthy man.” 

“I can well believe it; to the day of his 
death, he could be called handsome.” 

“She was beautiful, in a way, and had some 
Spanish blood in her veins. I always believed 
Rachel was part gypsy. At any rate, the woman 
was jealous of the affection my father bestowed 
upon me, a mere boy. I disliked her, because she 


MEMORIES OF THE PAST 


199 


took my mother’s place, and we never got on 
well together. I remember her flying at father 
once as though she would tear his eyes out; but 
he held her hands and talked to her as he might 
to a child, finally reducing her spirit to a state 
of submission.” 

‘‘When did she lose her mind — when she ran 
away? ” 

‘‘I always had an idea she would go crazy 
some day. I could detect a peculiar gleam in the 
corners of her eyes that made me think of people I 
had seen shut up in a mad-house, and therefore I 
was not much surprised when the outbreak came. 
It was just before I went back to college in 
my Freshman year. I had come home for the 
Christmas holidays, you remember, and had invited 
you out to see me — canceling the engagement by 
wire the day before you were to come.” 

“Yes; and I never understood the cause, save 
that it was trouble in the family — I had not met 
your father then, you know.” 

‘‘The fact was, she had flown at father like a 
tigress, with a knife in her hand, in one of her 
furious fits. I helped him disarm her. We 
thought her subdued, but that night she fled. In 
a fit of pique, she had run away with a villain 
who hated father and wished him ill. You 
have heard how she came back, out of her mind. 
In ’81 father had her put in the asylum under 


200 


THE CHRTHRET AFFAIR 


another name. She escaped, and attacked him 
in the grave-yard, and was again incarcerated. 
Taken all in all, it is a cruel story. I have no 
doubt my poor father deeply regretted ever 
having been foolish enough to marry again; but I 
never, by word or deed, reproached him for it.” 

‘Tt is indeed a sad story, Tom, and if my spec- 
ulations should turn out to be true, it would look 
as though strange fate had overhung your house. 
That his mad wife should, of all living persons, be 
the one to strike your father down, would seem 
to be the working of a peculiar destiny.” 

"Pray God it may be so. I could never know 
happiness again if the hand of my poor Madge 
were red with my father^ s blood — even though 
the deed were done unconsciously. All the sweet, 
hallowed memories of the past would be as dreams 
to us both, for his spirit would ever stand be- 
tween. But I have fought for my wife before, 
and I am ready to do it again — my bonny 
Madge,” he rnurmurs. 

"Tom, you never wrote me how you met and 
won your wife. We have the opportunity now — 
would you mind relating it?” I ask; something 
must be done to kill the time that hangs upon 
us. 

"If you like, John; it may be the last chance 
I can have to tell it from my heart, which will 
be broken if — that — thing proves true.” 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE WAY HE WON HER 

I had heard rumors concerning Tom’s wooing, 
and that it had been stormy. His own words to 
the effect that he has fought for her before, and 
will again, if need be, confirm this as a truth. 

Of course, any other time would do just as 
well to tell the story, but I am in the humor 
for it now, and, as Tom has declared, if this 
dreadful uncertainty that hangs over his house 
proves to be the truth, he will not have the 
heart to relate it in the future. 

Another reason that influences me to ask him 
for it now is to kill time — the minutes seem 
to drag along interminably when one is desirous 
of seeing them pass quickly. 

My friend endeavors to forget the bitter present 
in dealing with the past, and in a measure succeeds 
in doing so. I say nothing to remind him of it. 

Tom’s story is as follows: 

“About two years ago I started for Europe, 
supplied with liberal means, and determined to 
see all that was worth seeing there before re- 
turning. If anyone had suggested to me the 
idea that I, Tom Cartaret, would bring a wife 


201 


202 


THE CARTyIRET AFFAIR 


back with me, I would have laughed him to 
scorn. 

“Well, I spent one year in travel, and covered 
a great deal of ground, visiting and studying 
the wonders of Northern and Eastern Europe — 
Russia, Germany, Greece, and Turkey — passing 
over to Palestine and Eg3^pt, so that I had been 
in both Asia and Africa. 

“Then I reached Italy, and spent two months 
among her wonderful cities. My next destination 
was France, after which my route would take me 
to Spain, Norway, and Great Britain, when, my 
two years, leave of absence being up, I meant to 
return to my native land. 

“At the time I left Turin by rail for Paris, 
last December, I had not the slightest idea of 
changing my plans. I expected to spend a couple 
of weeks in Paris, and a month in the rest of 
France, after which I should enter Spain at 
Barcelona, and see Castilian life along the Medi- 
terranean. 

“John, I got no further than Paris, so far as 
solitary sight-seeing was concerned, for I met 
my fate there — my Madge. 

“Our meeting was singular, and, it seemed to 
me at the time, had a toucE of destiny in it. Let 
me tell you briefly the romantic incident: 

“I had been in Paris about ten days, and, hav- 
ing entered into my business with a vim, by 


THE WAY HE WON HER 


203 


this time had seen pretty much all there was. 
One evening I chanced to be walking along 
the boulevard, watching the gay scene, when a 
horse* became frightened at something and ran 
away. I never even looked to see who was in 
the vehicle, but, jumping out, caught the beast 
by the bridle and hung on until I had him con- 
quered. 

“Then, panting with my exertions, I looked up 
to see my fate gazing at me through a pair of 
eyes that riddled my heart on the spot. It was 
Madge. She thanked me so sweetly for saving 
her life, and I made out it was nothing, though 
the fiend of a horse was about as crazy as any 
one I ever tackled, and you know Pm a great 
horseman. 

“Well, of course it ended in my entering the 
little phaeton and driving the now subdued 
beast home. During that brief ride my surrender 
was complete, and when I left Madge Wilder, 
with a promise to call on the morrow, I swore 
under my breath that unless there were insuper- 
able impediments in the way, she would be 
Mrs. Tom before the year was out. 

“There were obstacles to such a nice little 
scheme, and I soon discovered them. 

“Madge lived with a maiden lady, an aunt, and 
I found that this person, a Frenchwoman, by 
the way, entertained great ideas. She hoped to 


204 


the carta^et affair 


marry her niece to a coronet. That was her 
dream, to see her a duchess or a countess. 

“I found a number of men bearing titles fre- 
quent visitors at the house, but the favored one 
seemed to be a certain Lord Carpenter — a man 
whose reputation was not of the best, but who 
had wealth back of his title. 

“The maiden aunt favored him, while Madge 
returned my love. To make my story short, John, 
we kept this up for some months; and there 
were times when I despaired, as well as occasions 
when my hopes were exuberant. 

“At last I saw Madge was in trouble — her eyes 
were full of unshed tears when alone with me. I 
had not told her my love, as yet, though she must 
have known it; but I could restrain my feelings 
no longer. 

“Then I learned, what I had secretly known 
before, that my affectfon was returned. We 
plighted our troth, and nothing but death could 
separate us. I would write to my father, inclos- 
ing her picture, and tell him all. I knew he 
would bid me God-speed, and as soon as I had 
his sanction to the marriage we would be made 
one, after which we could laugh at scheming 
aunts and love-stricken English lords. 

“On the very next day, just when I had mailed 
my letter to father, I found Madge at our tryst- 
ing-place in the garden of the Tuileries. She 


THE WAY HE WON HER 


205 


ha'd her veil down, and when she raised it, at 
my coming, I saw that her eyes were swollen 
with weeping. 

“Demanding the cause of her sorrow, I learned 
that trouble had come. Her aunt was her 
guardian, and Madge lacked six months of being 
of age; besides, the singular spinster possessed a 
subtle power over her when in her presence, so 
that Madge seemed unable to refuse to do any- 
thing she ordered. 

“On the previous evening her aunt had scolded 
her for allowing attentions from me, when she 
was as good as the promised wife of Lord Car- 
penter, who had asked to pay her attentions — a 
man she detested and feared. 

“I saw that a crisis had come, and that unless 
I wanted to lose the girl who had wrapped her- 
self around my heart, I had better be up and 
doing. I quieted Madge’s fears, and told her 
to be ready to marry me at an hour’s notice. 

“First of all, I meant to have an interview 
with Carpenter — I had met him several times, and 
there was no love lost between us. He was an 
arrogant fellow, hot-tempered and cruel, so I 
did not expect to gain much there. 

“I sought him out, and found my man at one of 
the English clubs to which I had eri^r/e. 

“As quietly as I could,*! introduced the subject, 
and asked him as a gentleman to cease perse- 


206 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


cuting a young lady who was engaged to me in 
spite of her aunt’s opposition. 

“No gentleman could have taken exception 
to my language; I endeavored to be courteous, 
even while burning with indignation. 

“The noble lord flamed up, swore horribly, and 
cursed me like a gutter ruffian. This was too 
much for my blood, and I struck him. He 
declared I would hear from him, at which I 
laughed and said the sooner the better, naming 
an American artist as my friend. 

“They made it up in a hurry, and on the fol- 
lowing morning at sunrise Carpenter and myself 
faced each other in a wood not many miles away 
from the city, dueling pistols in hand. 

“I shall not bore you with my feelings, or any- 
thirt^ in the way of a description. You know all 
about duels, if you have never been engaged in 
one. This was no French farce, with the princi- 
pals so far apart that only by accident could one 
be struck; but we measured off twenty paces, 
stood back to back, and at a signal turned and fired. 

“His bullet passed between my left arm and 
my body as I whirled around. Mine took him 
in the arm, and gave him a severe wound. 

“Lord Carpenter had had enough; but while 
leaving the field he swore horribly at me, and 
declared I had not seen the last of it yet. 

“I knew he was a man who would descend to 


THE IV AY HE tVON HER 


207 


any depth in order to accomplish his purpose, 
and that unless I was very careful, he would win 
the girl I loved. 

“The thought nearly set me frantic. I realized 
that I could not wait for father’s consent, but 
must take my fate into my own hands, or lose all. 

“So I immediately set to work making arrange- 
ments for a hurried marriage. My artist friend, 
Chester Palmer, gave me his hearty assistance, 
and in that one day all had been planned and 
made ready. 

“Madge had agreed to meet me at four in the 
afternoon, and I thought there would be no 
trouble from this source — but I waited at the 
rendezvous half an hour in vain. 

“What could this mean — never before, had 
Madge treated me thus. I could surmise that one 
of two things was the case — either Madge must 
be sick, or she was detained at home. 

“Here was a new trouble. I posted off to her 
house. The door was closed in my face, after 
I had been told she was not at home — which I 
knew was a lie, from the sneer on her aunt’s face. 

“Nothing daunted, I watched the building 
from a corner near by, and soon saw a handker- 
chief waving from a window — it was Madge, 
and she knew me. 

“How was I to communicate with her? The 
window was just above the roof of an empty 


2o8 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


house, and an idea came to me. I was not long in 
finding the agent of the empty house, and paying 
a sum down for its rental; then I found a lively 
little street Arab — and those in Paris are as bright 
as our New York boys. 

“This chap readily took a note I gave him, and 
when I had helped him out of the scuttle, climbed 
along the roof like a monkey. He could just 
reach the window, and rapped upon it. 

“I watched him anxiously. The noise he made 
attracted the attention of someone inside, and 
then Madge’s dear head appeared. She took the 
letter, saw me, blew me a kiss, and vanished. 

“My boy came back. I remained at the scuttle 
and awaited the result. Soon Madge again 
appeared, nodded an affirmative to me, and then 
placed her finger on her lips to signify that there 
was danger — her aunt was near — so I drew in my 
head and shut the trap just in time to escape 
discovery, for I heard that sharp voice at the 
window. 

“I now completed my plans, and at ten o’clock 
had a carriage waiting near by. A light in the 
window above* told me that Madge was waiting, 
and I climbed up to the roof. 

“There was danger here, but I had calculated 
all the chances, and knew what was before me. 
Some risk had to be taken, for everything was 
in peril of being lost. 



HIS BULLET PASSED BETWEEN MY LEFT ARM AND MY BODY, 

—Page 206. 






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THE WAY HE WON HER 


209 


“I reached the window with a short ladder I had 
secured, planted this, and then gently tapped 
on the ledge. Madge appeared at the window; 
we exchanged a few whispered words. Imagine 
the situation, John, away up there on the roof 
of a building, where the slipping of a foot would 
precipitate us to destruction. 

“At last I held her in my arms; inch by inch 
I drew her along the roof toward the scuttle. 
She was brave, and though several times it looked 
as though something were about to happen, she 
did not utter a cry. 

“And the scuttle was gained, thank heaven! 
I believe I lived years in the interim. 

“A minute of bliss followed; the reaction 
was so great that the poor girl almost fainted 
in my arms, and I held her to my heart. But 
every second was precious — I could not linger, for 
we might be overtaken, and my promised wife 
snatched from my arms, to become the bride of 
that hated lord. 

“We descended to the street— there seemed 
to be no danger here. My closed carriage was 
near at hand. Just as I was helping Madge in, I 
was suddenly seized, a curse sounded in my ear, 
and, whirling around, I found it was the English- 
man who stood there. 

“I promptly knocked him down, jumped into 
T/ie Cartaret Affair 14 


210 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


the vehicle, and in a minute we were far dowi^ 
the avenue, making great time. 

“When twenty minutes had gone, we were man 
and wife, and I could defy all the powers to part 
us. 

“And that is the way I won Madge.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


UNCLE JETHRO AT THE CONFESSIONAL 

I have been greatly interested by the story of 
Tom’s wooing, and have no doubt there are other 
events connected with it than what he has told. 

“Did they give you more trouble afterward?” 
I ask my friend. 

“Yes, indeed; that English lord was a regular 
bulldog. He was not deterred even by the fact 
that we were married, but tried to invoke the law 
to separate us — through the aunt, of course.- I 
managed to outwit them all, and finally, hearing 
from father, brought Madge home.” 

“This Gautier — ” 

“Was one of Madge’s lovers — she cared nothing 
for him, but the fellow would not take no for an 
answer. I had some trouble with him, too, after 
my marriage. He hired some rascals in Spain to 
capture us; but they got a taste of American in- 
dependence, for I was armed, and made it hot for 
the bandits. You know yourself the last dodge 
Gautier played.” 

“Well, I must say you have made foes that will 
not back out at anything. What ever became of 
the noble lord?” 

2II 


212 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


Tom actually laughs ere replying. 

“I think I effectually cooled his ardor at last. 
They say an incorrigible setting hen can be 
broken up by holding her under the pump, and I 
believe a bulldog Briton can be made to see the 
error of his ways in something of a similar 
fashion. ” 

“How was that, Tom?” 

“Well, we met by chance — the usual way — on 
the Grand Canal at Venice. I believe, though, 
the rascal was dogging me with some evil plan 
in view. At any rate, there was a collision — his 
gondola ran into mine, and almost upset us. 
There was no occasion for the accident — the 
canal was wide, and the moon shining. I in- 
stantly conceived the idea — seeing his face at the 
moment of collision wreathed with a smile of an- 
ticipated triumph — that his plan was to upset my 
bark, perhaps drown me, and run away with my 
Madge. Quick as the idea flashed into my brain, it 
seemed to make my blood boil — I could feel it 
leap through my veins like hot lava. Obeying 
my first impulse, I sprang into his gondola, ut- 
terly ignoring his cowering gondolier, and in a 
moment threw myself upon Carpenter. He struck 
at me with his fist savagely, but I paid no atten- 
tion to the blow, any more than if it had been 
the bite of a fly. Some superhuman strength 
seemed to be given to me. I took that fellow by 


AT THE CONFESSIONAL 


213 


the throat, shook him as a terrier might a rat, and 
ended by tossing him headlong into the water of 
the Grand Canal. Then entering my own gondola, 
I ordered my man to move off. Carpenter was 
not drowned, for I saw, a day or two later, that 
he had reached London, and was about to turn 
his attention to English politics. I think that 
cold plunge effectually cured him of any desire 
to steal another man’s wife — at least, I have 
heard nothing more from him.” 

“Quite a series of adventures, old fellow. If 
anyone deserves a good wife, surely you do, after 
such heroic efforts to get and keep yours.” 

Tom heaves a sigh. 

“No man ever loved his wife more desperately 
than I do mine. And to think what lies before 
me if this thing proves true! — John, can you won- 
der that my heart sinks like lead, and my whole 
being seems to be palsied at the thought of it?” 

I utter words of cheer, without really seeing 
how they can be carried out; and finally, remem- 
bering that uncle is waiting for me, rise to leave 
Tom. 

At the same time he gets up, saying he will 
go for a stroll, to pass the time away. I notice 
that he saunters toward the wall that separates 
the Cartaret grounds from the cemetery, but do 
not dream of his passing through to the lonely 
grave-yard. 


214 


HE CARTARET AFFAIR 


On my part, I proceed toward the stables, hav- 
ing my intended interview with old Jethro ahead. 
I do not know what I can squeeze out of the 
darky, but he certainly knows something, and I 
am determined to get at it. 

When I reach the stable, I see a light in a 
window which I know belongs to Jethro’s room, 
and I glance in. 

The darky is seated by the table bearing the 
lamp, and appears to be laboriously studying 
some bulky volume, presumably a Bible, for 
Jethro is nothing if not religious. 

I tap on the window; the darky seems to be 
alarmed until he sees my face at the glass, when 
he comes out to me. 

“Sit down here on this horse-block, old man. 
I have something to tell you that will perhaps 
cause you much trouble.” 

He does as I request, probably much surprised 
and not a little uneasy, for my manner alarms 
him as much as my words. 

I know I cannot frighten him into telling what 
he has seen by threatening any calamity that 
may hover over his head, so I mean to proceed 
upon another tack. 

"Uncle, Tom has been telling me all about his 
father’s unfortunate second marriage. You told 
me it was believed that woman was drowned, 
when you knew she was sent to an asylum.” 


AT THE CONFESSIONAL 


215 


"’Deed, marse, I war told so. Arterwards de 
old marse let me into de secret," he says. 

"But you did know this fact?” 

"It am so." 

"And, Uncle, you knew the asylum burned, and 
that it was believed the mad woman kept there 
under the name of Barbara Brown was reported 
burned to death — she being Rachel." 

"Yes, I know dat. " 

"But, Uncle, was Rachel destroyed?” 

He shakes his head sadly. 

"Marse Luther done beliebso — he had de watch 
dey found on de body.” 

"Very true; but another maniac might have 
borrowed or stolen the watch. Such things are 
often done among crazy people.” 

"I dunno much about ’em.” 

"Oh! I thought you once told me you knew a 
good deal about them?” 

Uncle Jethro lapses into silence; he realizes 
that he has stepped into a hole, and that if he 
flounders about it will only let him down deeper. 
His only way to escape is to remain quiet until 
someone else throws him a support by means of 
which he can pull himself out. 

"Now, see here. Uncle, you know something 
that sooner or later others must learn.” 

No answer. 

"I admire your fidelity to old Luther Cartaret; 


2i6 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


but your duty to the living must take precedence 
over that to the dead.” 

Uncle Jethro groans. 

I presume there is a great struggle in his poor 
mind. He believes he is doing the right thing by 
continuing faithful to the trust reposed in him 
by the dead master. 

Somehow I honor the honest old fellow for it, 
and even hate to force him into speaking; but 
living issues must always take precedence over 
dead ones with me. 

“Uncle, do you believe Rachel Babette perished 
in that asylum fire?” I persist. 

“Dey done say so.” 

“But do you honestly believe it?” 

“Marse Luther tole me so.” 

I turn upon another tack. 

“Uncle, I told you of a crazy woman I had 
seen in the grave-yard.” 

How he squirms! He knows what I believe, and 
fears that in some way I mean to dig his secret 
out of him. 

“I have a strong idea that oman is Rachel 
Babette come back again." 

“What did Marse Tom say about it?” 

“He went to Europe soon after the fire, and has 
just lately returned — he believes she died in the 
fire; but I know better.” 

Uncle shrugs his shoulders. 



I nil 

t TnnmHTt 




I 


I TOSSED HIM HEADLONG INTO THE WATER OF THE GRAND 

CANAL.— Page 213. 







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AT THE CONFESSIONAL 


217 


"Dar you hab it, Marse John.” 

“No; you have something to tell me, Uncle, and 
I conjure you, in the name of your old master, to 
speak now, and save trouble.” 

“I don’t know nuffin’ at all — Marse Luther, he 
could tell youse, but he am gone.” 

Talk about a mule — an ignorant darky can give 
the animal points in obstinacy. 

"Old man, by keeping silent you will bring ruin 
and disgrace upon those you love. What do you 
care for that crazy creature? — she cannot be 
harmed. ” 

‘T promised de ole marse,” he begins, and 
stops. 

“No matter what you promised him, you are 
freed from it now. He is dead. Suspicion points 
to someone as his murderer. To save that per- 
son, one you love must be sacrificed.” 

Uncle Jethro gasps; he does not even yet com- 
prehend the full meaning ot my words. 

“Do you know what will happen, my man? To 
me, and in the presence of that detective, your 
young master, Tom Cartaret, has confessed that he 
is the guilty party — that it is his hand that is 
red with his father’s blood!” 

Jethro almost falls off the block — he tries to 
speak, but seems tongue-tied, so I proceed to rub 
the thing in — there is nothing like pepper and 
salt to make a wound sting. 


2I8 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


“Hark you, old man, of course you know, as 
well as I do, that Tom is innocent; but his quar- 
rel with his father, and the acknowledgment of 
guilt, will send him to the gallows.” 

“No, no! ” he mutters, brokenly. 

“It is the truth. You know he is innocent, 
and you would see him die before your eyes rather 
than break your promise to the dead.” 

“Marse John, I couldn’t do it. I done tell 
anything so dat Tom not suffer. He hab nuffin’ 
to do wif it.” 

“Who, then?" 

“S’ pose I say it was old Uncle Jethro?” 

“I’d laugh in your face, old man. You haven’t 
the power that sent that knife home. I am de- 
termined to know all. Uncle, look me in the 
face — who has been locked in the attic rooms of 
the house until lately?” 

His lips move — I can see them in the moon- 
light, but no answer comes. 

“It was the Babette woman — she was not burned 
in the great fire — your master captured her after 
Tom had gone to Europe. He determined to 
keep her in his own house under lock and key. 
Answer me, as you value your soul’s salvation. 
Uncle, is not this so?” 

My words impress him — he feels as though 
placed on the witness-stand, one hand resting on 
the Bible, and his oath given to tell the whole 


AT THE CONFESSIONAL 


219 


truth and nothing but the truth. I have con- 
quered his stubborn spirit at last. 

“Marse, youse know it am true. Dem are de 
facks, ” he says, slowly. 

‘‘Rachel is alive?" 

"I belieb so." 

"The chances are this crazy woman in the 
grave-yard is she?" 

"It look like it, sartin. ” 

"When did she escape from her confinement?” 

"Last night; she was dar de day before, kase I 
toted her meals up to her, all but supper, an’ 
Chloe took dat.” 

"Then Chloe probably forgot to fasten the 
(door at the head of the stairs, and the crazy 
woman escaped. Uncle, you did not tell me all 
you saw or heard when you were out last night. 
If you would save Master Tom’s life, tell me 
what occurred during that time. You were near 
the library window, you say?” 

"Yes, sah — de one around de corner whar de 
moon fall on it. I heered a kind o’ scream, an’ 
naturally looked dat way, jest in time to see a 
woman’s face — den it war gone." 

"A woman. Uncle? — think well; whom did you 
at the time believe it to be?" 

"Marse John, it cuts me to de heart to say it, 
but I done belieb it am Marse Tom’s young 
wife! ” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A CRY FROM OVER THE WALL 

The poor fellow speaks this in a desperate sort 
of a way, as though he has been goaded to de- 
claring it, which is literally the truth, I must 
acknowledge. 

I weigh his words. They mean a great deal, 
and I desire to take them in all their bearings to 
each other and the whole case in general. 

It is evident that Uncle Jethro believes his 
old master has been murdered, and that the 
person guilty of his death is either Tom’s young 
wife or the crazed creature who has been the 
bane of Luther Cartaret’s life for so many years. 

His words indicate that the chances are in 
favor of its proving to be Madge. 

This, then, is the awful thought that has been 
preying upon the mind of the poor darky ever 
since early dawn, when old Chloe came running 
out to the stable, wildly cryingT 

“Wake up! Uncle Jethro, wake up! De ole 
marse him done gone dead in he’s library! Wake 
up!” 

Jethro knows it is murder, despite his talk of 
possible “susancide; ” he knows that the person 
220 


A CRY FROM OVER THE IV ALL 


221 


who did the terrible deed was a woman, and 
thinks he recognized Madge, although not sure, 
since he had but a glimpse of the face. 

During the day, therefore, he has been “lying 
low,” as he would have expressed it, and en- 
deavoring to avoid being questioned. 

He is a devoted servant, and owes a certain 
allegiance to the crazy woman, for she was the 
care of his master, who had often made him 
promise to look after her should he, Luther 
Cartaret, die before she did. 

Then, in the other case, although Jethro has 
only known Madge a short time, she is the person 
to win the love and reverence of such a devoted 
servant. Besides that, she is the wife of Tom, 
his young master, and Jethro stands ready to 
coin his heart’s blood into money, if need be, 
for the sake of “Marse Tom.” 

When he hears what I have to say, an awful 
alternative is placed before him: he must con- 
fess the truth, or see Tom punished for a crime 
which he did not commit. 

Under these distressing circumstances, then, 
he blurts out the truth, and I find my little 
game successful in that I have learned all he 
knows. 

“Jethro, if you were put on the witness-stand, 
and made to swear, with your hand on the 


222 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


Bible, would you be able to declare that it was 
Tom’s wife you saw?” I ask. 

'T would not, Marse John; I only think it 
were she — but I don’t swear to it," he replies. 

"The moonlight is. deceptive. " 

"Dat am a fack. ” 

"Women look much alike — especially when 
seen under such circumstances — and there is 
something similar in the cast of features between 
Tom’s wife and poor, crazy Rachel." 

"Marse John, I notice dat." 

"It is just possible, then, that you may have 
mistaken one for the other. This could not hap- 
pen in broad daylight, or if the circumstances 
were different; but I really believe, as it was, 
such a thing could easily be." 

"An’ so do I. De only ting I kin svv^ar to was 
dat it war one ob de two.” 

Here 1 rest my case. I have caused Jethro to 
admit all I ever wanted, and I believe I now 
have a good fighting chance to win the game, in 
spite of being heavily handicapped. 

Poor old uncle has proven no match for the 
lawyer, and yet I confess it was about the tough- 
est molar I ever had to draw. Success would 
never have come to me, only that I gained the 
leverage of his fears with regard to "Marse 
Tom,” and in this manner reached the desired 
result. 


A CRY FROM OVER THE IVALL 


223 


I doubt if uncle knows anything more of value 
to me. A few little points need burnishing, 
and I ask him further questions. As his reserve 
has been wholly broken down now, he does not 
hesitate to answer me frankly. 

Eleven o’clock has come and gone; time is 
now stretching on toward the solemn hour of 
midnight, when something may happen if my 
plans do not miscarry. 

Uncle Jethro is tired; I tell him to go to bed, 
and not think of these things, leaving them for 
others to wrestle with, who are better able to 
comprehend such intricate problems. I assure 
him that it will come out all right, but say noth- 
ing about Madge’s habit of sleep-walking, as I 
believe the old darky has already about as 
much on his mind as he can carry. 

I hope he will go to bed and sleep soundly; 
we have no need of his services, and he would 
only be in the way if he prowled around. 

So I see him back to his room, borrow a match 
with which to light my cigar, and then saunter 
away. Perhaps I have some news now that may 
interest Tom. He will take fresh courage when 
he hears that, after all, Rachel was not one of the 
victims of the asylum fire, but for two years has 
been confined in his father’s house; that she 
escaped on the night of the murder, and is now 
concealed in the grave-yard. 


224 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


When Tom hears these startling facts, he must 
take new hope — his fears will vanish like tne 
fog before a breeze. 

I feel better myself — decidedly so; and I puff 
my cigar with a sense of exhilaration, as though 
I am on the point of winning a victory. Indeed, 
I even feel sorry for Mr. Smithers, just as a lucky 
greenhorn might declare he was sorry, but could 
not help all the good cards coming to his side. He 
will take it all good-naturedly, I presume, for 
he has given me to understand as much; at any 
rate, he declared that, although his professional 
dignity might be hurt, he hoped I would win the 
game. 

What if she does not come? 

My faith is not at all shattered, and I believe 
we will find means to prove the case anyway. 
Once I put Smithers on it, I am sure his keen 
professional scent will bring about victory. 
Even your best dog often has to be led to the 
trail, and given to understand who it is he is 
bent upon tracking. 

The mild Havana I am smoking is very sooth- 
ing to the nerves. 

How gloriously the moon shines! This is a 
night for lovers — such as is long remembered. 
It is a night for any honest deed — only crime 
shrinks abashed from this flood of glory. 

A gentle breeze stirs the branches of the trees ; 


y4 CRY FROM OVER THE IV ALL 


225 


the leaves rustle above, and under foot, for they 
are fast falling, and I think what a grand time 
Tom and I might be having at our old stamp- 
ing-ground, among the whirring partridges. It is 
just such weather as this that tones one up to 
the work, makes the blood tingle, and gives new 
life in place of the old. 

Have patience! Everything comes to those 
who wait, and in good time I will, no doubt, 
be following my setter, Prince Hal, through the 
brush of the old farms where I love to hunt so 
well. 

Once in my walk I come near the house. All 
is quiet in that quarter; a light or two may be 
dimly seen, but not a sound is heard. Death 
broods over that great mansion; he has come 
like a thief in the night, and set his seal upon 
the old master^ s face. 

Before another night rolls around there will be 
changes here; the master must be laid in his 
last resting-place, beside the wife he loved, and 
the coroner^s jury will have met to hear the evi- 
dence, and decide how Luther Cartaret came to 
his death. 

Yes; and it is to be sincerely hoped that long 
before that event takes place the truth will have 
become manifest, and the load of guilt placed 
where it belongs. I have faith in it. 

My game has become so strong now that I do 
TAe Cartaret Affair 75 


226 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


not believe it can be battered down. I have 
worked while Smithers laid on his oars, simply 
because he believed he had everything his own 
way. It is the old story of the race between the 
tortoise and the hare again ; the tortoise won 
because the hare, being so far ahead, lay down 
to take a nap, and overslept himself. 

Where can Tom be? has he gone to the house? 
Well, I expect to be moving in that direction 
myself as soon as I have finished my weed — it is 
too good to throw away. 

I take out my watch, and by a trick known to 
all smokers, of puffing at my ci^ar rapidl /, cause 
enough light to enable me to see the dial, even 
under the shadow of the trees. 

It is 11:30! Another half-hour to elapse be- 
fore we need to set our trap. In all my life I 
have never known time to pass so slowly; it 
seems to fairly drag along, and I have certainly 
lived a year since reaching Clifton on the 7:30 
express. 

As I saunter about, I allow my thoughts to 
cover a good deal of ground, for the circum- 
stances of the case are such that there can be 
much latitude in one’s foraging. 

I even arrange in my mind the position each 
one will take while on the watch for the second 
advent of the mysterious assassin, so that the 
ground can be covered to the best advantage. 


A CRY FROM OFER THE IV ALL 


227 


Three of us should be able to do it thoroughly, 
and nothing escape us. If Madge issued from 
her room, her course could be watched. 

Still pondering over these things, I enter upon 
the avenue where Tom and myself had walked 
when conversing. The little rustic seat is 
reached and passed, and my thoughts go back to 
the late interview with my friend. 

Tom must be found, and told the latest news; 

I know it will make him feel good. 

I am just debating in my mind whether I had 
better go to the house, or look for him further 
in the grounds, when a sound comes to my ears 
that causes me to stand as motionless as a statue, 
and listen. 

What is it? 

The cry — for such I determined it to be — comes 
from the direction of the cemetery. I remember 
the uncanny creature whom I have seen there, and 
believe at once it must be from her this weird 
shriek emanates. 

Suddenly there flashes through my mind the 
recollections of Tom; when last I saw him he 
was heading in the direction of the wall, and 
perhaps passed through into the grave-yard. 

What if that mad thing has met him there? 

Tom told me she always hated him, and it 
might be that this feeling has been carried over 


228 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


the dark sea which she crossed when her mind 
gave way to chaos. 

If they have met among the tombs, she would 
no doubt spring at him like a tiger, and I have 
reason to fear the strength of even a weak woman 
when crazed. 

At once I take the alarm — perhaps I ought to 
go in search of my friend, who may be in a 
position of extreme peril. 

I start along the avenue, throwing away my 
cigar. There is a strong chance that, in an en- 
counter with the mad woman, I will not come 
out any better than Tom; but I have no time to 
bother with such questions now — duty beckons 
me. 

Hardly have I gone half the distance along 
the avenue of stately elms than I see a moving 
figure in the patch of moonlight beyond. I 
come to a halt, waiting to see whether it is Tom 
or the woman; another patch of light is reached, 
and the form that moves along the avenue comes 
into view. 

I draw a sigh of relief — it is Tom! 

From the way he moves along, I feel confident 
that something has happened. 


CHAPTER XXV 


“it is time! ” 

Tom advances hurriedly, and, as it happens, 
while passing across the broad arrow of moon- 
light that pierces the avenue of elms, he turns 
his head, looking anxiously over his shoulder. 

That one act convinces me that my friend has 
had some connection with the weird cry that 
came floating to my ears from over the wall. 

He draws closer. When about to pass me by, 
I call out: 

“Ah, there, Tom!” 

“John, is that you?” 

He is panting heavily, as though having re- 
cently passed through some severe exertion. 

“Tom, what is the matter?” I ask. 

With that, he walks up to me and lays his hand 
impressively on my shoulder, saying : 

“John, if I hadn’t such positive evidence that 
Rachel Babette is dead, I would be ready to be- 
lieve I had met her in the cemetery yonder — that 
your suspicions were true.” 

“And on my part, Tom, since seeing you, I 
have learned that such a thing is the case,” I re- 
turn, impressively. 


229 


230 


THE C/IRTHRET AFFAIR 


"Then, Rachel — ’’ 

"Is alive! that is she in the grave-yard." 

"But it seems improbable — for two years she 
must have been roaming about the country." 

"Not so. On the contrary, for two years she 
has been an inmate of your father’s house, locked 
in the attic rooms, which were made into a prison 
for her, and from which she only escaped last 
night." 

Tom hears this with surprise. 

"Can this be true?" 

"Believe me, it is." 

"How have you learned these facts, John?" 

"By questioning the one person who could tell 
them," I make reply. 

"And that person was — " 

‘Uncle Jethro." 

When he hears this, Tom gives a low whistle. 

"I told you he was as close as a clam; by what 
means did you open his lips?" 

"By using those great levers — love and fear." 

"Explain, John." 

"I knew his love for you, Tom, and felt that I 
could make use of this in order to force from him 
the secret he held. I told him that circum- 
stances pointed to you as the guilty party, and 
that, in all probability, your life would pay the 
penalty unless he spoke out." 

"And that fetched him?” eagerly. 


'/r IS TiMEr 


23 


"Yes; he said he was ready and willing to keep 
the wishes of his dead master as far as he could, 
but that when it came to seeing you suffer, when 
you were innocent, he could keep silent no longer. 
I questioned him, and found out all about 
Rachel having been kept a prisonerin the attic — 
a fact I have dimly suspected for some little 
time — and also what uncle saw last night when 
out in the grounds here — things he did not in- 
form me of when we had our last talk.” 

"What were these facts?” 

Tom is still very nervous, and it can hardly 
be wondered at — he has passed through the tort- 
ures of the fiery furnace within the last twenty 
hours, and has undergone a strain that would 
have killed some men. 

"He saw a face in the library window — I can- 
not explain exactly — perhaps the heavy, maroon- 
colored curtains shut the light away; at any rate, 
the moon fell upon her face.” 

"It was a woman?” he gasps, his hand tight- 
ening on my arm. 

"Yes." 

"Was it — Madge?” 

"Jethro cannot swear to it — he thought so at 
the time, but now he is not sure. He even be- 
lieves it may just as readily have been Rachel, 
since the two have something of the same look — 
that is, understand me, Tom, both have dark eyes, 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


232 

although when I saw Rachel, her hair was flying 
and she seemed like a fiend.” 

“She is a fiend,” mutters Tom, mechanically, 
placing a hand to his head. 

This reminds me. 

"You met her there?” I ask. 

“Yes; and she nearly murdered me.” 

“Tell me about it, Tom." 

“Let us sit down here, then; I feel tired.” 

Nothing loath, I accompany him to a seat, and 
we occupy it together. 

“Have we time?” asks Tom. 

“Yes, nearly half an hour yet; donH worry 
about that, old fellow." 

“When I left you, John, I thought to take a 
stroll and smoke a weed, for the sake of passing 
time away. You can imagine my feelings and 
thoughts — I shall not speak of them. Uncon- 
sciously, I walked in the direction of the door 
in the wall, and passed through into the ceme- 
tery. Still wandering on along the well-known 
path, I finally reached the Mecca of many a 
walk — my mother^s grave. I had visited it since 
my return, but my spirits to-night seemed to be in 
strange harmony with the scene. Sitting there, I 
thought of the times long gone by. I remember 
little or nothing of my mother personally, as I 
was very small at the time she passed to a better 
world; but father has told me so much of her, and 






NEVER WILL I FORGET HER FACE.— Page 234. 


m IS TIME! 


233 


her picture has always been in this locket on my 
watch-chain, so that it seems as though I knew 
and loved her. Time passed unheeded by me. 
I could not say how long I sat by the side of the 
grave, but since you tell me it is past the half- 
hour, I must have been there quite a while. A 
sound aroused me. I was sitting in the shadow, 
and the moonlight fell upon the two stones that 
mark the plot of ground. Looking up, I was 
astonished to see some human being moving, and 
as I sat there, from among the bushes came the 
woman you described, her hair tangled and half 
covering her face, the whole expression being 
that of a maniac. Holding my breath, I watphed 
this weird creature, wondering if I were about to 
receive some clue that would benefit Madge — 
such an idea flashed into my mind, strange as it 
may seem. She fluttered over the ground in a pe- 
culiar way, and I could hear a crooning sound 
proceeding from her lips — no other words would 
describe the noise exactly. Presently she was 
bending down over , the slab that has the name 
Rachel Babette on it; the sight of the marble 
seemed to excite her, just as a red muleta does the 
bull in the arena. Picking up a stone, she began 
to batter the slab viciously, all the while ex- 
claiming: ‘It is a lie — a base lie! Fire and water 
cannot destroy her! She is immortal! But he, 
the arch-devil — he must die! he who put this lie 


234 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


here!* and so she went on raving and pounding. 
Perhaps it would have been wiser for me to 
have remained where I was, and I should have 
done so had she confined her mutilation entirely 
to the marble slab; but when I saw her turn her 
attention to the granite monument that marked 
mother’s grave, indignation got the better of 
caution. I sprang out, and, seizing her arm, 
hurled the stone into the bushes. She turned and 
looked at me in the moonlight; and never will 
I forget her face. If ever there was a fiend from 
Hades in this world, that woman is one. What 
would you here — begone !* I cried. With that, 
she crouched like a tiger about to spring. I never 
knew what fear was in my life, before, John, 
but the strangest shudder passed through my 
frame just then — it was like a chill. ‘Keep 
off, you she-devil!* I had hardly said this before 
she was at me, clawing and tearing. I believe 
that if I had let her close with me, she would 
have torn my eyes from my head. Never have I 
fought with a woman before, and I pray heaven 
I never may again. It seemed contemptible for 
me to be striking at her, but I really believe she 
would have murdered me. Even as it was, she 
gave me a scare — I could hardly keep her hands 
away from my face, and I began to believe there 
was no way out of the mess but to stretch this 
insane creature at my feet. As luck would have 


77 IS TIME! 


235 


it, in knocking aside her reaching arms, I hap- 
pened to strike her a smart blow on the head. It 
was then she gave that fiendish shriek you may 
have heard." 

I nod my head in the affirmative. 

"Seeing my chance, I turned and hastily left 
the spot, taking advantage of her confusion, but 
1 did not know whether she would follow me 
or not, and kept looking behind as I hurried along 
the path." 

“You don’t think you injured her?" 

"No, no; the blow was not hard enough for 
that. It surprised and startled her; that is 
all." 

Tom’s story does not amaze me — it is just what 
I might have expected, when the crazed Rachel 
met young Cartaret. As for myself, I had no 
hankering after an encounter with the mad 
creature, alone in the cemetery. 

Tom might consider himself fortunate to have 
come out of it without damage, and I do not 
hesitate to tell him so. 

What he has related gives me even more posi- 
tive proof that I am on the right trail, and I feel 
that, unless something occurs to prevent the ghost 
from walking, we will soon be treated to the clos- 
ing act in the drama. 

"Shall we go in?” asks Tom. 

"Wait a few minutes more. Repeat her words 


236 THE CARTARET AFFAIR 

as near as you can — I want to impress them on 
my mind.” 

“You mean what she said to herself while she 
was pounding at the slab?” 

“Yes." 

“They were word for word just as I have given 
them to you — I know it, for it seems as though 
they were burned on my brain in letters of fire. 
I will repeat them: ^It is a lie — a base lie! Fire 
and water cannot destroy her! She is immortal! 
But he, the arch-devil — he must die! he who put 
this lie here!’” 

“Let us see what lies in that tirade. By the 
reference to fire and water, she undoubtedly 
means the tragedy at Watkin’s Glen, where she 
was reported drowned, and the burning of the 
insane asylum, in which she was supposed to have 
perished.” 

“Yes, that is true.” 

“Then, by ‘arch-devil’ — he who was responsible 
for the false inscription — ‘he must die’ — without 
a doubt, she meant your father.” 

“But her words would indicate that she did not 
know of his death?” 

“Ah! consider her malady. She might murder 
him every night, and think it but a phantasy of 
her brain. No doubt, mentally she has done this 
many a time. That is no proof that she is in- 
nocent. I would rather be inclined to think of 


“/r IS TIME!'' 


237 


it as just that way; and that she will come again 
to-night at the same hour, to again enact the 
tragedy over. No, no, Tom; her words to me 
form the cement that binds my chain together. 
I am eager to test the result.” 

“Then, let us go to the house — I have an idea 
I would like to speak about. 

“It is time.” 

Again I examine my watch — this time by the 
light of the moon — and find it just ten minutes 
of twelve. 


CHAPTER XXVI 


WAITING 

We walk to the house. Neither says a word, 
for, somehow, both of us seem to be busy with 
our thoughts. I myself confess to a little nerv- 
ousness) for the strain has been long continued ; 
and as the period for the crisis draws near, I am 
considerably worked up over the possible success 
or failure of my plan. 

We enter the house, and in the dimly-lighted 
hall see a figure start up — it is Smithers. 

The three of us walk into the library. Here, 
upon stretchers, lies the rosewood casket that 
contains all that is mortal of Luther Cartaret — 
the spirit has flown. I have seen death too often 
to tremble in his presence; and walking up to the 
casket, I look upon the fine face of the grand old 
man. 

Tom follows me. He bears up well, but I 
know what he suffers — still waters run deep — 
and I respect his silent grief. 

"He looks very natural,” he says, slowly; and, 
indeed, the undertaker has done well, for the 
old man seems to be in a placid sleep. 

Smithers arouses us. 

238 


U^AITING 


239 


“Gentlemen, we must decide upon our plan of 
action without much loss of time. It is Mr. 
Peters' idea — and a very good one, too, although, 
of course, we cannot be certain that it will suc- 
ceed; but, at any rate, we are here to make the 
attempt. ’’ 

I remember now what Tom has said about hav- 
ing a new thought. Now is his time to speak, or 
it will be too late. That being the case, I men- 
tion it. 

“My idea was this: We expect someone to enter 
this room intent on murder; that person hopes 
to find my father seated in his easy-chair, and 
the sight of this coffin here may disarrange all 
our plans." 

I look at Smithers. The detective smiles, and 
nods. 

“Quite right, Mr. Cartaret; quite right. To 
prove the matter fully, things should be as 
similar as possible to what they were last night. 
Quite right, sir,” he says. 

“What do you intend to do, Tom? You would 
not place the body in the chair again?" 

“No, no; not that. I did think of it — but that 
would be sacrilege. Besides, there is no need 
of it — we can accomplish the same result in 
another way." 

“Explain, then." 

“Suppose we, first of all, remove this to the 


540 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


little side room;” and he points at the casket. 

To this both of us agree, and accordingly 
take hold. While Tom and I, being the stronger, 
raise the coffin, Smithers picks up the two 
wooden horses and moves with them ahead into 
the adjoining apartment. 

When we enter here we find them ready to 
receive the burden, and, on our part, we are 
quite ready to put it down, for it is uncomfortably 
heavy and cumbersome. 

We pause for a minute to catch our breath, 
and then move into the library again. The first 
scene in the closing act of the drama has been 
enacted, and we move along to the next. 

Tom gently wheels the easy-chair to its place 
beside the table. I guess his motive. 

"Tom, you must not dream of it,” I expostulate, 

"Why not? I am something like my father; a 
little flour dusted through my hair will complete 
the resemblance — enough for this performance, at 
any rate. Besides, the light will be dim. You need 
not fear of the cheat being discovered, John.” 

"It is not that, my friend; I am only alarmed 
lest it should be too successful,” I answer. 

"How is that? Don’t talk in riddles.” 

"To be plain, then, you know what we expect — 
that one out of her senses, and bent on murder, 
will enter this library within the next hour?” 
‘Tes,” 


W/IITING 


241 


"Suppose you sit there, apparently asleep, 
and she suddenly pounces on you — what is to 
prevent her from burying the knife she holds in 
your heart, even as it was buried in that of your 
father?" 

Tom shrugs his shoulders, 

‘T am willing to take the chances," he de- 
clares. 

"But we are not — Smithers, do you side with 
me in this?" I appeal to the detective. 

"It would be a foolish move for Mr. Tom. I 
wouldn’t sit in that chair, and let a crazy person; 
advance on me with a knife, for a pension.” 

"There; we are two against one, and you must 
give in, Tom," I say, firmly. 

"If you insist on it, of course I shall; but what 
shall we do to carry out the idea?” he asks, in a 
dejected tone. 

I instantly conceive the wild idea that Tom has 
been brooding over his troubles so heavily that 
his mind is hardly right, and that he has even 
decided it would be a sweet thing if he could 
also die at the hands of his wife. A strange 
notion, it is true; but people in his condition are 
apt to indulge in odd fancies, and Tom is cer- 
tainly on the brink of insanity himself. 

"I think we could make up a dummy that 
would pass muster in the dim light. After all, 
what we want is that the person enter this room 

e Cartaret Affair 16 


242 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


with the knife in her hand; it will be easy to 
judge the rest." 

"Mr. Peters is right. Can we depend on you, 
Mr. Tom, for garments to do this thing?" says 
Smithers. 

"Go into his closet, and help yourselves." 

We once more seek the adjoining room, and 
begin to carry out some of the clothes. Smith- 
ers takes it in hand, and I am surprised to see 
how expert the man can be; he certainly knows 
how to fashion a good dummy on short no- 
tice. 

I assist him when practicable, and between us 
we manage to get on well. 

. The figure is seated in the chair, with the 
back toward the library door, one arm resting on 
the table, and above the top of the chair can 
just be seen the little black-silk skull-cap Luther 
Cartaret was accustomed to wear during nine 
months of the year, because his hair was scant, 
and this made him an easy subject for colds. 

When the work has been finished, I step back 
in the direction of the door, meeting Tom, who 
has been out of the room. 

I can guess where he comes from. 

"Is she still asleep?" I ask. 

He nods his head, and a smile of great tender- 
ness lights up his face. 

"Yes; I don’t believe she has moved a particle, 


IV^ITING 


243 


but as I looked in upon her she moaned a little 
in her sleep,” he answers. 

“Poor girl! she has had a bad day. I trust 
to-morrow will be brighter for her.” 

"What have you done here?” 

"Look for yourself.” 

He glances around the room, and as his eyes 
reach the great arm-chair, they rest there. A 
startled expression crosses his face, and his lips 
tremble as they mutter; 

“It is terribly real ! How often have I seen 
him thus as I entered here; alas, my poor father! ” 

And the man seems to be on the point of break- 
ing down, for I hear a dry sob escape from his 
chest; but, with a great effort, he recovers his 
self-possession, and remains calm. 

I believe we have done our work about as well 
as anyone could under the circumstances; and if 
the scheme is not a success, it cannot be blamed 
on poor judgment in arranging matters here. 

Of course, if the ghost will not walk, we can- 
not expect to gain the end we seek; but we have 
laid great stress upon such a thing talfing place. 

I have not forgotten one important part of the 
programme, but that concerns me alone, and I 
do not have to consult my confederates. Leav- 
ing them in the library, I slip out, and make my 
way to the little side door. 

As I expected, I find this securely locked. 


244 


THE CART A RET AFFAIR 


Old Chloe has not neglected her duty on this 
night, whatever she may have done on the preced- 
ing one. 

A distinct purpose has drawn me here, and I 
proceed to put it into execution. Time has 
dragged along with leaden wings up to this 
period, but now each minute is apt to count as 
something. 

Turning the key in the lock, I take it out and 
drop it in a corner. The door is not secured — 
anyone can enter from without. 

To make sure of this, I even turn the knob and 
draw the door back; a flood of moonlight greets 
my eyes, and I see the lovely scene of shadow 
and brightness spread out beyond. 

I leave the door ajar, and smile as I mentally 
compare my action to a trap set for a wary 
beast with some bait lying near which will be 
an inducement for him to enter. 

Will my expected game come? I confess to 
sudden qualms of fear lest it may be a mistaken 
fancy on my part — it is so easy to build up a 
theory, and so hard to carry it into practice. 

^t such times I am compelled to summon all 
my reserve force to the rescue, and chase the 
intruder Doubt from his lodging-place, lest he 
soon overwhelm me. 

All seems ready now. We wait for but one 
thing, and that is the most important element 


H^AITING 


245 


of all — the corner-stone of the structure we are 
building with so much care. 

Will she come? I have an indefinite fear lest 
the encounter with Tom in the cemetery may 
have been the means of turning her insane 
thoughts the other way; but we can only trust to 
heaven. 

All that man can do we have done, and the rest 
must be left to a higher power. The door in 
the wall is unfastened, that opening into the 
house ajar, just as on the preceding night; so 
that if the strange notion strikes Rachel Babette, 
there is no obstacle to her coming. 

So thinking, I make my way again to the 
library, where I find that, upon Smithers’ advice, 
both of the others have removed their shoes. 
The idea is instantly caught, together with its 
advantages, and I proceed to follow their exam- 
ple. Thus we can move around, when necessary, 
without making any noise by means of which 
our presence might be discovered. Then we speak 
of our hiding-places. 

Smithers declares a better place could not be 
found than the little room connected with the 
library. A porti&e drawn across the door- way 
affords a splendid means of concealing the form, 
while it will be easy to find a way of peeping 
from the folds. Besides, in case of necessity 
one is only half a dozen steps from the dumb 


246 


THE CART/iRET AFFAIR 


figure in the old arm-chair, and this space can 
readily be cleared, in case of necessity. 

I see Smithers concealing himself there, while 
Tom creeps out of the room to again look upon 
his sleeping wife above. 

All is well! 

There is no reason why the trap should not 
be set now — everything is. ready. After that one 
glance around, I raise my arm and proceed to 
turn the gas lower. It is reduced to a small 
blue flame, being made of gasoline on the prem- 
ises; but the light is sufficient for our purpose, 
as objects can be seen across the room. 

Having done this, I leave the library and make 
my way in the direction of the small door, for, 
while here, I can keep watch on both sides at 
once. 

Which will it be? Oh that this question 
were decided! 


CHAPTER XXVII 


THE GHOST WALKS 

Minutes pass. 

All insect life has gone when the frost swept 
down from the cold north, so that the only sound 
coming to my ears is the soft rustle of the leaves 
when the gentle breeze fans them — otherwise it 
is as still as death. 

I have opened the door so that I may watch, 
and sincerely hope and trust something will 
happen. 

If she comes, I can see her flitting along in the 
moonlight while she is yet some distance away — 
in plenty of time to step back and close the 
door; the shadow hanging at this side of the 
house will prevent my being discovered. 

Thus I keep watch and ward. 

All is as quiet inside the house as out, for not 
a sound may be heard. 

Such a night I shall remember to my dying 
day; it seems to have the power to rise up be- 
fore me in all its phases, and whenever my 
thoughts go backward, they must rest upon the 
chain of events that mark its course. 

I have been in my position perhaps ten min- 
247 


248 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


utes or so, when I receive a sudden shock. 
Something touches my arm, and turning, I see 
the shadowy outlines of a form. It is Tom. 
Were the light more powerful, I might distin- 
guish the pallor and anguish of his face; as it is, 
I am left to judge this from the tremor in his 
voice as he addresses me. 

“John, come with me,” he whispers. 

“What’s the matter?” 

“She is moving about, and I am afraid she 
means to come down-stairs." 

I confess a cold chill falls upon me; it is as 
if an icy hand had suddenly clutched my 
heart. 

What if, after all, Madge comes down, takes the 
knife which I have carefully placed in the hall, 
just as it was on the previous night, and creeps 
into the room, intent on the awful work! 

Poor Tom! I can fully understand his fears — 
they have awakened again to life, and rack his 
tortured soul. Well, it must soon be over, at any 
rate; either dawn will open her glorious light 
before him, or else a blacker night than he has 
ever known engulf him. There is some satisfac- 
tion in that. 

I push the door gently to, but leave it ajar, as 
has been my former intention. 

We can both glide along without making any 
noise, for our shoes have been taken off. In this 






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“MY GOD 1 JOHN, SHE IS COMING."— Page 249, 


THE GHOST JVALKS 


249 


way we enter the main hall, where the gas has 
been turned low. 

Trembling like an aspen, Tom looks toward the 
stairs, and I am aware of a curious fluttering at 
my own heart as I glance in that direction. 

All is still. 

The moon peeps through the little stained- 
glass window at the landing above, and reflects 
the various colors upon the wall. 

While we crouch at the angle and watch, I feel 
Tom clutch my arm again, and hear this sibilant 
whisper in my ear: 

“My God! John, she is coming! Look!” 

As true as fate, there upon the landing stands 
a figure in white— motionless, as though hesitat- 
ing whether to come down or not. Can she sus- 
pect our presence, or have heard Tom’s whisper? 
— it does not seem possible. 

And she is coming down! — what does that mean? 

I feel for Tom. Every nerve in his body must 
be stretched to its fullest tension, and a man of 
his build is a mass of nerves, once his nature is 
aroused by such a calamity. 

All I can do is to watch, and keep close to 
Tom, so that I may clutch hold of him in case he 
shows signs of fainting. 

With a noiseless, gliding movement, the lady 
comes down the stairs. Of course, the light 
being dim, I am unable to see her face plainly 


250 , 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


enough to analyze it; but there is that in her 
motions to tell me she walks in her sleep — a pe- 
culiar something hard to explain. She does not 
grope her way; her eyes are open, and yet, while 
she sees so as to avoid obstacles, she notices 
nothing else. It is a strange condition to be in; 
and yet with some people it seems to be a dis- 
ease from childhood. 

Fascinated, yet appalled, we watch Madge de- 
scend the stairs. She reaches the bottom, where 
she stands a moment as if in a state of doubt, 
while poor Tom trembles so violently I am afraid 
he will go into a spasm. 

Ah! again she glides forward, toward the 
library door. It is all up! — we can hardly doubt 
now the identity of the assassin. 

What is this? — she does not pause when she 
reaches the library, but goes on. Tom gasps 
something — I do not know what it is, but believe 
he means to express great relief. I watch the 
figure move along the hall; it vanishes from view 
within the dining-room. 

By this time I have aroused myself to action, 
and grasping Tom’s arm, hurry him after the 
vanished figure. We reach the door, and stand 
there gazing in mute astonishment. 

Tom Cartaret’s wife is standing at the buffet — 
she has calmly poured out a glass of water from 


THE GHOST IVALKS 


251 

the silver ice-pitcher always found there, and is 
quenching her thirst. 

All this we can see, because the moonlight 
chances to enter at the bay window and disperse 
the darkness in the room. I feel a thousand per 
cent, better already; it seems to me as though the 
clouds were rolling away and the blue sky shin- 
ing through — the dismal rain has ceased to beat 
upon our hearts, the carol of birds sounds among 
the trees. Where erstwhile all was blackness and 
despair, now come the glad light and peace of 
hope. 

Madge sets the tumbler down with as much 
deliberation as though fully conscious of what 
she is doing, and, turning, glides toward us. We 
involuntarily step back out of the way, but, giv- 
ing us one look, she pays no further attention 
than if we were blocks of wood. People who 
walk in their sleep see, but do not recognize their 
dearest friends — they seem to be gifted with a 
peculiar power of avoiding obstacles, and yet pay 
no attention to human beings. 

Turning from us, she moves off, heading di- 
rectly for the stairs, up which flight she goes, 
and vanishes from our view. 

Tom turns and falls upon my neck. The tears 
well from his eyes — I can feel them on my hand, 
and thank God for the relief to his burning 
brain. 


252 


THE CARTHRET AFFAIR 


"John, she is innocent! I will stake my life 
on it now! " he mutters, hoarsely. 

I am ready to believe the same thing myself — 
her actions have convinced me ; but I remember 
that the work to which I have devoted my powers 
is only half done. 

If we have proven Tom’s wife innocent, the 
mystery still hangs over the Cartaret house. 

Who is guilty? 

My ideas on that subject grow stronger with 
each passing moment, and I can hardly keep 
from laughing in my sleeve when I think how 
neatly I have put Mr. Smithers in a hole. 

Tom leaves me to follow his wife upstairs, 
and in a few minutes he steals back to report 
that she is sleeping soundly in the chair. 

I make up my mind that we had better conceal 
ourselves; if Rachel comes, she will not be walk- 
ing in her sleep, and a suspicious sound may 
cause her to fly. There can be no one more wide 
awake than an insane person. 

Looking around, I discover that there is a niche 
in the wall behind the hat-rack, which is one of 
those massive old-fashioned pieces of furniture so 
seldom seen nowadays. 

By moving it a trifle, Tom and I can conceal 
ourselves behind the friendly buttress. It so 
happens that this stands just opposite the 


THE GHOST IVALKS 


253 


library door, and I consider this fact as so much 
in our favor. 

Once we are ensconced in our nook of hiding, 
we wait, with what patience we can command, for 
the- next event to take place. It seems as though 
a drama were being enacted — a tragedy more than 
a comedy — and now, thank heaven! we have come 
to what may be the last scene. 

Patience, friend Tom! You have gone through 
the worst of it all, and the balance cannot affect 
you so seriously. 

Was that sound the creaking of a door? Our 
sense of hearing has been sharpened to an aston- 
ishing extent, and we catch noises that, under 
other circumstances, would not be noticed. 

No; it is the squeaking of a mouse somewhere 
near. The little rodent, a moment later, scampers 
across the hall and into the. dining-room. 

Still we wait. 

Time drags along. I wonder if we have not 
been crouching here an hour — at any rate, it seems 
an age to me, for my limbs are cramped, such is 
the confined nature of our hiding-place. 

If Rachel fails to come, our work will only be 
half done; but I am not ready to give up in de- 
spair — while theie^s life there’s hope, and the 
hour is not yet too late. 

What I fear most of all, is that her encounter 
with Tom has alarmed the woman, and turned 


^54 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


her mad thoughts elsewhere. In such a case, she 
will not come. 

The moon has worked around so that it shines 
upon the library windows, just as it must have 
done on the preceding night when poor old Uncle 
Jethro saw his vision behind the glass and out- 
lined against the dark curtains. 

Tom shows astonishing fortitude in bearing up 
with the fatigue; but, then, he has everything at 
stake; and love causes him to hold out. 

Thus, in times past, wise generals, in selecting 
a company to defend some vital point, picked out 
those with families, knowing they would, as a 
rule, hold out longer than single men, having 
more at stake in the matter. 

Tom thinks not of fatigue; his whole mind is 
devoted to the one idea of proving his wife in- 
iiocent by fastening the guilt where it belongs. 
He hardly moves beside me there, but watches 
and waits, believing that heaven, having been 
so kind, will carry the case still further. 

This satisfies me, as my thoughts have been 
almost wholly with Tom. For myself there is 
nothing to fear, but with him it is different, 
since his brain has been under such a strain. 

All things must come to an end, and this 
period of suspense is finally broken. This time 
I know it is the opening of a door that causes 
that sound, and I draw Tom’s attention to the 


THE GHOST IVALKS 


255 


fact, although there is probably no need of that, 
as he is as wide-awake as I am. 

A rustle of garments reaches us, and we hold 
our breath in suspense, our eyes fastened upon 
the point where the smaller hall merges into the 
main one. 

It is here she must appear. The light is 
strong enough to disclose her presence, and we 
can watch without being seen. Oh! the tremen- 
dous suspense of the next minute! We know, we 
feel, that someone is advancing along the narrow 
passage-way, even though we can neither see nor 
hear them. This doubtless comes from what 
might be called intuition — certainly nothing else 
would give us the power to divine what is taking 
place. 

Our agony ends — around the corner steals a 
figure. Never in all my life have I seen such an 
awful spectacle as the one that now greets me. 

It is Rachel Babette. The mad woman of the 
tombs has come to repeat her dreadful deed of 
the night before. She looks like the Witch of 
Endor, her hair streaming over her face, and her 
whole appearance indicating the absence of sense 
— the presence of a crazy fury bent on murder. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


AT last! 

The dreadful figure comes gliding along the 
hall, her face turning this way and that, as 
though the crazed creature continually suspects 
impending danger; but we remain as silent as 
death behind the rack, and she does not dream 
of glancing there. 

She has reached the hall-table; here lie my 
tools of the camp and hunt — gun, knife, package 
of ammunition, corduroys, and such things. At 
this table she stops for a moment — we can see 
her hover over it — and then she goes on. I ascer- 
tain at a glance that, although the deer-skin case 
for my hunting-knife is still there, the trusty 
blade itself has gone. 

This is just as I suspected. Had I been a born 
detective, I could not have made out a better 
case. No sooner has the mad creature vanished 
within the library, than I leave my place of 
concealment and steal softly to the door, fol- 
lowed by my companion. We are determined to 
be witnesses of the last scene in the tragedy, 
and the time for this has come. 

When we reach the library door, we come to a 
256 





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THE MYSTERY SOLVED. -Page 258 





AT LAST! 


257 


halt, and stand as if petrified. If I could only 
blot out that scene from my mind, how gladly 
would I do so; but I fear it has been painted 
there for all time. Shutting my eyes, I can see 
it now, just as plainly as though it were taking 
place again. 

The crazy woman has advanced close up to the 
easy-chair, where the supposed figure of old 
Luther is seated; she creeps forward with a cat- 
like movement, that sends a shudder through one 
to observe it. I see the blue flame of the dimly- 
burning gas shine upon the blade of the knife 
she carries, and I can guess easily enough to 
what use she means to put it. 

Now thg woman-tiger is close enough for a 
sudden spring to land her at the side of the 
motionless figure; she seems to be gathering her 
powers for such a leap, and I know the end has 
come. 

Tom’s breathing close to my ear tells me that 
he is on hand. Rachel Babette must not be 
allowed to leave that room again — the scene of 
her terrible crime. Caught in the act, she must 
be secured, to prevent further damage. 

As I expect, she makes a sudden lunge forward, 
and the steel flashes in the gaslight; we can 
hear a dull thud, telling that it has been buried, 
with all the desperate power of her arm, in the 
dummy figure of Luther Cartaret. 

Th^ Cartaret 4ffair ty 


258 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


Then comes a wild shriek — the mad woman 
has discovered the cheat put upon her — she leaps 
back, and glares first at the mock body and then 
at the knife she holds. 

“It is a lie! another lie, just like the stone at 
the grave 1 There is no blood! I cannot see 
him stare at me! I know — this is his ghost, 
and they have s,et a trap for me to drag me down. 
I can see the grinning devils all around me — keep 
back or I will kill you; keep back, you witch of 
Satan, or I will send this knife through your 
heart!” 

With this last shriek she suddenly hurls my 
heavy hunting-knife like a thunderbolt at a costly 
mirror in which she has seen a reflectign of her 
own mad self. There is a mighty crash of 
falling glass, and a crazy laugh from the 
woman. 

“Dead! I told you I would do it. That is 
the way I treat all I hate! I was brought up to 
know the use of a knife in Corsica. What! are 
there more of you? and am I unarmed? I will 
tear your eyes out, you devils! ” 

With that she makes a dash at Smithers, who 
has incautiously entered the room, coming from 
behind the curtains. He has no idea of engag- 
ing in a hand-to-hand encounter with this woman, 
endowed with all the supernatural strength that 
accompanies insanity, and consequently, wheq 


AT LAST! 


259 


he sees her advancing, he dodges her furious 
assault and runs, with Rachel in pursuit. 

Around the library goes the strange chase; I 
am inclined to laugh, despite the gravity of the 
case, but realize that Smithers is in a bad fix, 
and needs assistance. 

Several times she almost seizes him, but he 
escapes by dodging; chairs are tumbled over, 
and it sounds as though Bedlam had broken 
loose. Above all other sounds rise the sharp 
cries of the crazy creature, now worked up to a 
pitch of nervous excitement terrible to witness. 

I hear a startled exclamation near me, and turn 
just in time to see Tom Cartaret throw one arm 
around his sweet wife, who has appeared on the 
scene, wild-eyed with mingled wonder and alarm. 

The noise undoubtedly aroused her from sleep, 
and in her terror she has fled down-stairs. 
Thank God! there is no longer the shadow of a 
doubt between those two loving hearts — the past 
has been cleared up, and the future shines 
brightly. 

I realize that something must be done to relieve 
Smithers, or else he will fall into the hands of 
his enemy. Three times they have passed me 
by; the woman does not seem to notice me, 
while poor Smithers has an appealing look on 
his face. 

"Trip her up,” he gasps, "or Pll shoot her!” 


260 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


I do not want him to do this, and hence find 
myself obliged to carry out his orders. When 
she passes again, I suddenly throw out my foot, 
and the* woman goes heavily to the floor. She is 
stunned by the fall, for she does not move. 
Smithers, breathing hard, pounces upon his late 
pursuer, and secures her wrists with a pair of 
steel bracelets, so that she may not be in a con- 
dition to do any further injury when she recovers 
her senses. 

Meantime I turn up the gas. Tom is still 
clasping his wife tenderly to his heart, and I 
never saw a happier-looking man in all my life 
than he appears, with Madge’s head nestling 
against his shoulder. It is almost worth pass- 
ing through such darkness to catch the heavenly 
light that lies beyond. 

I am unable to say a word; but, walking over, 
take a hand of each, then we three stand and 
speak with our eyes. What language could 
be more eloquent, since it comes from the 
soul? 

Peace, with honor! Victory has crowned our 
efforts, and the mystery is solved. 

We are disturbed by Smithers, who lays his 
hand on my arm. Turning around, I see his 
brown face glowing with the excitement of the 
recent chase — and something more. In the hour 
of my victory I am drawn to Smithers more than 


AT LAST! 


261 

at any previous time, such is the healthful effect 
of success. 

“Peters, I want to shake hands with you, and 
congratulate you at the same time. You were 
right, and I was wrong. I have learned a lesson 
I shall never forget, and I had believed I was 
too old a hand at this business to pick up any 
new points, especially from a — ’’ 

“Greenhorn!” I finish his sentence for him 
with a laugh. “Ah, fortune favored me, my 
friend. I confess I believed as you did, but my 
hopes led me the other way.” 

I give him a look that tells him it is best to 
say no more on the subject now, for Madge is 
there, watching the scene in wonder from the 
protecting arms of her husband, who in a few 
words tells how we have suspected the truth and 
laid a trap for Rachel Babette. Never a word 
does he say about her own share in the exciting 
nighPs work — that will do to tell later, when 
the horror of the scene becomes but a memory. 

Here we stand and talk until Tom leads his 
wife away to her rooih. When he joins us some 
little time later, we decide what is to be done 
with the wretched creature who has now recov- 
ered her senses, and glares at us, but utters no 
sound. She evidently believes she is once more 
confined within asylum walls, and her fear is 
great. Perhaps she also remembers the awful fire 


262 


THE CARTARET AFFAIR 


that destroyed the building, and this causes 
fresh alarm within her poor brain. 

It is soon decided that the best thing to be 
done with her is to carry her to the upper floor, 
where the windows are barred. Later on, Tom 
will see to it that she is taken to an asylum. 

As for Tom, he cannot bear to look upon her; 
she has caused his father so much of suffering, 
and even been the cause of his death, and he 
never wants to see her face again. He will not 
touch her now; so that Smithers and myself 
have to see to getting her up into the attic. Of 
course, Tom is not vindictive — he cannot vent 
any ill-humor upon a poor, crazy thing, no matter 
what terrible crimes she may have committed; 
but I do not blame him when he hides his face 
with his hands, and, shuddering, cries: 

"Take her out of my sight — I never want to see 
her again. She has been the curse of the house 
of Cartaret. My poor, murdered father! " 

We spend the balance of the night in peace. 
Smithers appropriates a lounge down-stairs, and 
makes himself fairly comfortable, while I have 
my own room. 

On the morrow the coroner comes with his 
jury. Nothing is kept back now, and he learns 
all, so that the verdict is speedily given. 

It is a most unfortunate thing — no one can be 
blamed, and as nothing is to be gained by pub- 


AT LAST! 


263 


licity, the matter is kept as quiet as possible. 

Tom is in a bad state. I consult the family 
doctor, who declares that if Madge wishes to 
keep her husband from a bad attack of brain fever 
he must be sent away at once, not passing another 
night under that roof. 

At this Madge turns imploringly to me, and I 
assume charge. 

The funeral is over, and old Luther Cartaret 
has been laid away beside his wife under the 
willows. 

Tom yields to the urging of his wife, and 
hastily packs his traps. We leave the Cartaret 
mansion late in the afternoon, and taking a late 
train from New York, reach our old stamping- 
ground in Pike County by morning. There we 
find our dogs in fine trim, and begin the work 
without delay. As I expected, Tom braces up at 
once — his mind is taken from harrowing thoughts, 
and he escapes the threatened attack of brain 
fever, for which I am very thankful. 

We have a pleasant two weeks of it in the 
woods. Game is fairly plenty, and Tom becomes 
his old self. He can finally look back upon the 
tragedy without undue excitement, thanks to the 
peaceful nature of the woods. 

When our time is up we return, and Tom’s 
wife gives me a look that speaks volumes, when 


264 


THE CARTA RET AFFAIR 


she sees her husband’s face — the separation has 
been hard, but she feels amply repaid for it 
when she finds him restored to her, safe in body 
and mind. 

I advise them to go South for the winter, and 
they do so. Uncle Jethro and Chloe are left in 
charge of the estate, while the young couple roam 
through Florida, Cuba, and Mexico. In the spring 
they decide on a long tour to Europe, and this 
has been lengthened so that they have been tak- 
ing in almost every foreign country, sending 
home many choice articles of bric-a-brac collected 
by them, and which tell of considerable wealth 
and artistic taste. 

Rachel Babette was placed in a private asy- 
lum, where she could be well taken care of. I 
have just heard of her death through Smithers, 
who tells me she recovered her mind at the last, 
but of course these years were a blank. We do 
not dream of judging her, leaving that for a 
higher power. 

I have played detective no more since that 
eventful day, but often see Smithers, who seems 
to entertain a deep regret that I persist in being 
a poor lawyer, when I might have shone in kis 
line. I am content. 


THE END 





The Library of Choice Fiction. 


No. I. 

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No. 6. 
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The Lost Witness ; or^ The Mystery of Leah Paget. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch (of the Secret Service), author of “ Shadowed by Three,” 
“ The Diamond Coterie,” etc. 557 pages ; 16 full-page engravings. 

Madeinoiselle de Maupin; A Roma7ice of Love and Passion. 

By Theophile Gautier. 413 pages ; 16 half-tone illustrations from etchings, by 
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A Gold HunteAs Adventures in Australia. 

By Wm. H. Thornes, author of “The Bushrangers," etc. 564 pages; 40 full page 
engravings. 

Shadowed by Three. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch, author of “The Lost Witness,” etc. 670 pages ;• 55 full- 
page engravings. 

Notre Coeur {The Human Hearf). 

By Guy de Maupassant. Translated from the French by Alexina Loranger. Illus- 
trated with 12 half-tone engravings, including portrait of the author. 

A Whaleman's Adventure on Sea and Land. 

By Wm. H. Thornes. 444 pages; 36 full-page illustrations. 

Camille. 

By Alexandre Dumas, fils. Illustrated with 16 half-tone illustrations from the 
Original French Etchings. 

Pierre et Jean {Peter and John.') 

By Guy de Maupassant. Translated from the French by Alexina Loranger. Illus- 
trated with 8 photo-gravures on enameled paper. 

Madeline Pavfie, L'he Detective' s Daughter. 

By Lawrence L. Lynch. lamo. 456 pages; 45 full-page engravings. 

The Rich Man's Fool. 


By Robert C. Givins, Esq. i2mo. 430 pages. Illustrated with 17 photo-gravures 
on enameled paper, 

No. II. A. D. 2000. 


By Lieut. Alvarado M. Fuller. U. S. Army. i2mo. 412 pages. Illustrated with 16 
half-tones on enamelec^ paper. 

No. 12. The Bushrangers. A Yankee's Adz/entures During a Second 
Trip to Australia. 

By Wm. H. Thornes. i2mo. 480 pages ; 16 full-page engravings. 

No. 13. The Chouans. 

By Honore de Balzac. With 100 engravings on wood, by Leveille, from drawings 
by Julien de Blant. Newly translated into English by George Saintsbury. 

No. 14. A Chronicle of the Reign of Charles IX. 

Translated from tbe French of Prosper Merimee, by George Saintsbury. Illustrated 
with no engravings on wood from drawings by Toudouze. 

Above books are printed on a superior quality of calendered paper and 
artistically bound in enameled paper covers, with appropriate designs in colors. 
They are for sale at all l^ookstores and on all railroad trains. 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers, Chicago, III. 










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